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Life, 

Lectures and Poetry 


OF 


i/ 


Egbert Haywood Osborne. 


Comprising published and unpublished productions of 
Rev. Egbert H. Osborne, late of 
Tennessee. 

And his Biography, with brief mention of local 
contemporaneous events. 



JACKSON, TENN. 

1898. 


ST. LOUIS: 
NIXON-JQNES PRIN1 


1898 , 

S 



2nd COPY, 
1898. 


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3514 


Copyright, 1898, 
By A. W. Stovall. 





PREFACE AND DEDICATION. 


To rescue from oblivion the very eloquent productions 
of Rev. Egbert Haywood Osborne, is the purpose of 
this volume. Impressed with the duty citizens of our 
immediate section owe to themselves and posterity in 
fostering literature and preserving history, I am impelled 
to contribute this volume towards swelling the list of 
books that emanate from amidst the inspiring verdure, 
rippling streams, beautiful hills, pleasant vales, and 
sweet memories of Tennessee, which I love. 

It is affectionately dedicated in sweet remembrance to 
mv dear brother, David J. Stovall, who died August 
4th, 1876. 


A. W. Stovall. 



LIFE OF E. H. OSBORNE. 


Egbert Haywood Osborne, the author of the lectures 
and poetry in succeeding pages of this volume, lived and 
labored in a period of the country’s history that must be 
of much interest to those now living, and probably of 
interest to succeeding generations. Possessed of the 
power of eloquence and oratory to a degree attained by 
but few persons, his lectures and sermons were productive 
of great good, and whatever may have been his faults, 
posterity is very much indebted to him for whatever ad- 
vances have been made in morals, religion and civilization. 
Egbert H. Osborne was born at Huntsville, Ala., the 25th 
day of January, 1825. He died at Gallatin, Sumner 
County, Tenn., the 1st day of August, 1873, and his re- 
mains are buried in the beautiful cemetery at that place, 
where a marble slab records his name and the date of his 
birth and death. What a brief existence was accorded 
to this most remarkable man ! “ Whom the gods love die 

young,” is an adage with very many examples to verify. 
At his death he was 48 years, 6 months and 6 days old. 
At this writing he has been dead more than 24 years, 
and yet there are quite a number of men now living who 
were his seniors, and very many survive him these years, 
who were enraptured by his magnificent oratory, although 
the great number of men and women who were reared 
since his death, illustrate the fact, that we are living also 
among another generation of people. Some of the rela- 
tives of Mr. Osborne had the impression that he was born 
in North Carolina, one authority having it in Iredell 
County and another in Edgecombe, but it is quite certain 
that the place given herein, to wit, Huntsville, Ala., 
is correct. Of the parentage of E. H. Osborne not a 
great deal of information is obtainable. His father was 


6 


LIFE, LECTURES AND POETRY 


Edwin Jay Osborne, who was a lawyer of standing in his 
day, and is said to have been a nephew of William 
Osborne, Duke of Leeds, but just how much importance 
should be attached to one being of kin to a duke, the 
writer is not wholly prepared to say. His mother's 
maiden name was Margaret Bell, who first married a Mr. 
Duffy, an elegant gentleman and a gifted lawyer, who 
was wounded in a duel which caused his death four years 
after said marriage. No children were born to her as 
Mrs. Duffy, and some time after she became a widow 
she was married to Edwin Jay Osborne, who was himself 
at that time a widower with grown children. She was 
well connected, being the daughter of a captain in the 
Revolutionary War and a sister of Maj. Wm. H. Bell, of 
the United States Army, and of Admiral Henry Bell, of 
the United States Navy ; the latter being known as Com- 
modore Bell, and is said to have held a similar position in 
the Confederate Navy, during the Civil War between the 
States. The mother of Mrs. Margaret Osborne, formerly 
Bell, was a sister of Hon. John Haywood, who was a very 
distinguished citizen, jurist, and historian. He was a 
judge in North Carolina, and will be remembered as the 
author of one of the earlier histories of Tennessee, copies 
of which are now quite rare and of much value; he came 
to Tennessee in her pioneer days and was selected one of 
the judges of the Court of Errors and Appeals, the 14th 
September, 1816, and served continuously in that re- 
sponsible judicial position until his death in December, 
1826. This was then the highest judicial body in the 
State and was similar in its jurisdiction to our Supreme 
Court, as it is now called, the name, Supreme Court, 
being the designation only since the constitution of 1834. 
It is said that there was another brother besides John 
Haywood, whose name was Egbert, who lived in North 
Carolina, and that from this family and from this uncle 
came the given name of Egbert Haywood Osborne, the 


OF EGBERT HAYWOOD OSBORNE. 


7 


subject of this sketch. It is said in tradition that this 
great-uncle was a distinguished politician of the old line 
Whig school, being in this particular unlike his great- 
nephew, Osborne, who was an intense Democrat, and that 
on one occasion, when a young man, E. H. Osborne 
visited his great-uncle iu North Carolina, who was then 
a Whig candidate for Congress, and was sick and unable 
to fill an appointment to speak, and that at his request 
young Osborne went to fill the appointment and advocate 
the claims of his great-uncle to a seat in Congress ; this 
he did with much enthusiasm for the uncle in person, but 
in doing so he also made a vigorous Democratic speech, 
which was, of course, against the party tenets represented 
by the candidate, and upon subsequent remonstrance by 
his candidate Osborne informed him that he had failed to 
instruct him as to politics and that he had urged him for 
Congress as requested. This incident is related by Mr. 
Haywood Bell, of Jackson, Tenn., who is related to the 
parties. 

From the foregoing array of ancestral distinction, it is 
easy to conclude that Egbert H. Osborne was highly con- 
nected and that he had all that “ blood ” could do towards 
making him a great man. His education must have been 
above the ordinary education of that day. At about the 
age of fourteen years he went from Huntsville, Ala., to 
Charlotte, N. C., to attend school, and resided with his 
half brother, James W. Osborne, who lived there and 
who educated young Egbert H. after his father’s 
death. This old town of Charlotte, N. C., must have 
been in that early day much advanced in educational 
facilities and general progress, for it is the county 
seat of Mecklenburgh County, that State, where the 
first declaration of independence was proclaimed, pre- 
ceding the famous 4th of July, 3 776, Declaration. It is 
also stated by one authority that he attended school at 
Wakeforrest College, in Wake County, N. C., the county 


8 


LIFE, LECTURES AND POETRY 


in which is situated the capitol of the State. Just when 
Egbert’s mother became a widow by the death of Edwin 
J. Osborne the writer is not informed, but the credit of 
educating Egbert H. Osborne after his father’s death is 
given by members of the family, to his half-brother, the 
Hon. James W. Osborne, of Charlotte, N. C., and such 
credit speaks volumes in his praise. James W. Osborne 
was born in Salisbury, N. C., the 25th December, 1811, 
and died in Charlotte the 11th August, 1869. He took 
his degree at Chapel Hill in 1830, was naturally fluent of 
speech, a fine conversationalist, and fascinating in address. 
He was admitted to the bar at Charlotte in 1833. He 
was a profound lawyer; was appointed by President Fil- 
more Superintendent of the United States Mint at Char- 
lotte; he was appointed to a judgeship by Governor Ellis 
in 1859, and confirmed by the General Assembly in 1860. 
He sided with the South during the war ; was twice 
presidential elector for the State at large, first in the Clay 
campaign, and then in the contest between Seymour 
and Grant, and at the time of his death was State Sen- 
ator from Mecklenburgh County, in the North Carolina 
Legislature. Educated under the care of so distin- 
guished a citizen and residing with him, Egbert H. 
Osborne could not have been unambitious. When 
eighteen years of age he left his brother and the State of 
North Carolina and went to Brownsville, in Haywood 
County, Tenn., where his widowed mother had pre- 
ceded him and was teaching school ; his mother, a sister 
and himself constituted the family, but whether the sister 
died after coming to Tennessee or previously, the writer 
is not informed, but his only full sister died when she was 
just entering womanhood, and he wrote a beautiful and 
touching poem in reference to her death, which has a 
place in this volume, and from the date of this poem, 
1850, she must have died at Brownsville. Mrs. Margaret 
Osborne, the mother of Egbert, was quite a conversation- 


OF EGBERT HAYWOOD OSBORNE. 


9 


alist, was well educated, and in her older days in a sense 
somewhat eccentric. 

It was about the year 1843 that Egbert H. Osborne 
came to West Tennessee and settled at Brownsville. 
Doubtless it was then, as it is now, with young men just 
emerging from their teens, whether with or without great 
talent, a question of much importance, to be settled prob- 
ably much later, as to what should be the life work, or 
vocation, of the individual; such it seems to have been 
with Osborne at the age of 18, and for a number of years 
thereafter, for he vacillated as to his course for many 
years. At the time young Egbert Osborne came to West 
Tennessee, the country had been settled scarcely a quarter 
of a century, but in that time had made wonderful prog- 
ress in development, having practically emerged from 
the pioneer days, and was West Tennessee instead of the 
western “ district.’ ’ 

The fresh farming lands of wonderful productive qual- 
ities, the double log cabins of the farmers, situated near 
to living springs of freestone water, the virgin forests 
well watered by branches, creeks and rivers, the primitive 
villages, for such were then the present towns and cities, 
the adventurous, intelligent, honest and sturdy settlers, 
who had migrated from the older portions of Tennessee, 
from North Carolina, South Carolina, and Virginia, 
marked West Tennessee as a section where the ambitious 
hopes of youth and age might find gratification supreme. 
So it must have appeared to Osborne at the very interest- 
ing age of 18, an age to which fond hearts in their sere 
and yellow leaf delight to backward look. 

It is said that shortly after coming to Brownsville young 
Egbert Osborne professed religion and joined the Meth- 
odist church. Just what length of time “ shortly after ” 
implies in this particular case the writer does not know. 

The first visit of Egbert Osborne to the city of Jackson 
is interesting to note and, by the way, it was not so much 


10 


LIFE, LECTURES AND POETRY 


of a city then as now ; it was on the occasion of a diocesan 
convention of the Episcopalian Church held in Jackson 
in July, 1846. He came over from Brownsville with 
some of the brethren of that organization and the purpose 
of his coming was that young Osborne might be put in 
training for and become a minister of that Church. He 
is described as then a very young man and quite hand- 
some, of rare intelligence and of much promise, and that 
the girls were very much exercised over him; it is said 
that in that day “ as now,” there were a great many 
pretty girls in Jackson and that they were not slow in 
showing appreciation for one so intellectual and good 
looking as was then young Egbert Osborne; these girls 
are now grandmothers, and in glancing backward to that 
far away time their furrowed cheeks will not crimson at 
this statement. Our informant remembers that at this 
Episcopal convention Bishop Leonidas Polk preached a 
sermon, whether or not at this particular convention it 
is reasonably certain that this distinguished divine has 
preached in the city of Jackson. He was consecrated a 
bishop December 9th, 1838, and was killed in battle at 
or nearKennesaw Mountain, June 14, 1864. The church 
of that organization in the city of Jackson then and now 
is called St. Luke’s parish, and was organized the 23d 
July, 1832, the meeting for that purpose being held at 
the Masonic Temple. The first convention of the diocese 
held in Jackson was held at the courthouse in 1835 
Their church was built at the corner of Church and Bal- 
timore streets in Jackson and was consecrated 14th May, 
1853, Bishop J. H. Otey officiating. The church still 
stands there but has been very much changed in appear 
ance. The picture of the church as originally built has a 
place in this volume, and a comparison with its present 
appearance will, to some extent, interest the inquiring 
mind. A diocesan convention was held in St. Luke’s 
church at Jackson, May 11, 1870, and among those at- 


OF EGBERT HAYWOOD OSBORNE 


11 



Episcopalian Church, Jackson, Tenn. 
Consecrated 14th May, 1853. 



12 


LIFE, LECTURES AND POETRY 


tending was the distinguished ex-president of the South- 
ern Confederacy, Honorable Jefferson Davis, who repre- 
sented a Memphis constituency. 

The fates did not decree for Egbert H. Osborne ser- 
vice in the Episcopalian Church according to that early im- 
pulse, for he became a member of the Methodist Church 
and a preacher of that denomination, and subsequently a 
lawyer, a Baptist preacher and lecturer. It is somewhat 
difficult to accurately trace the life work of Mr. Osborne 
with dates and places continuously. Just at what time 
he became a preachei in the Methodist Episcopal Church 
South, the writer has not learned. He was a circuit 
rider on the LaGrange circuit and a gifted preacher. 
It was in the autumn of 1847 or 1848, while a circuit 
rider on that circuit, when charges were preferred 
against him in the church for an imprudence for which 
he was tried. He was in love with and engaged to 
be married to a young lady who resided at the time a 
few miles from LaGrange, in Fayette County, Tenu., 
with her uncle, a prominent member of the Methodist 
Church. A short time after the engagement was made, he 
visited her and she told him she had decided to break off 
the engagement and would not marry him. After some 
remonstrance from him he said to her in a jocular way 
“ we will settle the matter now,” and drew a pistol from 
his pocket, which accidentally fell on the floor and fired, 
the bullet striking the wall of the room. The young lady 
was badly frightened, screamed, alarmed the household, 
and quite a scene followed. One authority states that 
when he drew the pistol he offered it to her and begged 
her to blow his brains out with it. The opinion of very 
many of those familiar with the incident was that he in- 
tended neither the girl nor himself harm, but happened 
to an accident in a matter he intended as pleasantry. 
However, the incident furnished the basis of charges, which 
were preferred against him in the Church, upon which he 


OF EGBERT HAYWOOD OSBORNE. 


13 


was vigorously prosecuted in a Church trial, Dr. A. Biggs 
being appointed by the quarterly conference to conduct 
the prosecution. There was much sympathy for Osborne in 
the matter and the young people in that section who were 
familiar with the circumstances, were very much in 
sympathy with him. He was indefinitely suspended from 
preaching, but was not turned out of the Church. His 
home was then at Brownsville, Tenn., and in a year or two 
afterwards he was not a member of the Methodist Church. 
Many reasons have been given for his leaving that Church ; 
the foregoing incident by some; another, that he became 
dissatisfied with the tenets of the Church ; another that the 
Church disciplined him for drinking ; and still another rea- 
son is that given by the venerable Mrs. Sarah Taylor, the 
widow of James Taylor, Esq., of Jackson, Tenn., who has 
seen as much of this section of country, and retains it in 
her memory as well, as any living person of her age — 
that while a minister in the Methodist Church in the 
State of Texas he aspired to a much higher position in 
the Church than was accorded him and that he left it on 
account of that disappointment. Just what the circum- 
stances were that caused his membership in that promi- 
nent branch of the Church to terminate is probably lost 
to history, or at least a matter of doubt, and possibly it 
had as well be so, but certain it is that subsequent events 
proved that the Methodist Church lost a most eloquent 
preacher. 

In January, 1849, Egbert H. Osborne joined the Mis- 
sionary Baptist church at Brownsville, Tenn., being bap- 
tized by Elder Aaron J. Spivey, and was soon thereafter 
ordained a preacher in that progressive and popular organ- 
ization. He was shortly afterwards called to the care of 
the Baptist church at Bolivar in Hardeman County, Tenn., 
where he was married to Miss Cynthia A. Crisp, the 
24th January, 1850; the bride was the daughter of Col. 
Elisha C. Crisp, then a prominent citizen of Bolivar, a 


14 


LIFE, LECTURES AND POETRY 


member of the Baptist Church and for some years county 
court clerk of Hardeman County ; the marriage ceremony 
was performed by Rev. John H. High. How long Mr. 
Osborne resided in Bolivar the writer has not learned; 
but it seems that he must have removed to and from 
Bolivar, or in the immediate neighborhood, several times ; 



Court House at Purdy. 

As it was before it was destroyed by fire. 

for in writings by and of him it is shown he was 
there in 1850, 1857, 1861, and 1864. How long he 
was a minister after he was licensed to preach by the 
Baptist Church until he began the practice of law the 
writer is not informed, but besides being in charge of a 
church at Bolivar, he was in charge of other Baptist 
churches. He went from Bolivar to Madison County, 


OF EGBERT HAYWOOD OSBORNE. 


15 


about nine miles from Jackson, to teach school and to 
preach, thus combining in one the positions of pastor 
and teacher, a custom quite common in those days and 
not entirely infrequent now. This school was taught 
northwest of Jackson, at Big Springs, in the same house, 
now at Pleasant Plains, to where the same was removed 
and a second story added. Mr. R. B. Hicks, a promi- 
nent farmer of that neighborhood, remembers to have 
gone to that school and to have heard Osborne preach 
often in that section. Osborne became a great favorite 
as a preacher in West Tennessee in the fifties, but at 
some time during that decade he discontinued preaching 
and was licensed to practice law, hanging out his shingle 
at Bolivar, and practiced there for a time. During this 
experience he is known to have attended at least one 
Circuit Court, at Purdy, in McNairy County. This state- 
ment is vouched for by the present venerable sheriff of 
that county, W. D. Jopling, now about 77 years old, 
and who was serving in the same capacity when Osborne 
was at Purdy, previous to the war. This was not later 
than 1857, for in the latter part of that year he removed 
to Columbus, Texas, and set up to practice law there. 
In verification of this fact the writer has before him the 
original order of court directing the issuance of license 
at that place, of which the following is a copy, to wit: — 

The State of Texas, ) In District Court. 

County of Colorado. 5 Fall Term, A. D. 1857. 

To all to whom these presents shall come , Greeting: 

Know ye that this day personally appeared before me 
in open court, Egbert H. Osborne, and made application 
in due form of law for license to practice as an attorney 
and counselor at law, and said Osborne having produced 
his license granted him in the State of Tennessee, it is 
therefore ordered by the court that license issue to said 
E. H. Osborne to practice as an attorney and counselor 


16 


LIFE, LECTURES AND POETRY 


at law in the district courts and inferior courts of this 
State. In testimony whereof, I, James H. Bell, Judge of 
the First Judicial District of the State of Texas, have here- 
unto set my hand and caused the seal of the court to be 
affixed in open court in Columbus this 3d day of Novem- 
ber, A. D. 1857. James H. Bell, 

Judge of the First Judicial District. 

On the back of which is the following : — 

I, Egbert H. Osborne, do solemnly swear that I Will faith- 
fully and impartially discharge and perform all the duties 
incumbent on me as an attorney and counselor at law 
agreeably to the constitution and laws of the United States 
and of this State, and I do further solemnly swear that 
since the adoption of this constitution by the Congress of 
the United States, I being a citizen of this State have not 
fought a duel with deadly weapons within this State nor 
out of it, nor have I sent or accepted a challenge to fight 
a duel with deadly weapons, nor have I acted as second in 
carrying a challenge, or aided, advised or assisted any 
person thus offending. So help me God. 

Egbert H. Osborne, 

Sworn to and subscribed before me this 4th day of 
November, 1857. R. H. Jones, Clerk, 

D. C. C. C. 

What success attended Mr. Osborne in Texas, as a 
lawyer, or what length of time he was so engaged, the 
writer has not learned, but some incidents connected with 
the practice of law have been detailed that would do 
credit to more experienced practitioners. But evidently 
law was not to his liking or failed to furnish him a 
sufficient constituency, for he was then a minister of 
the Gospel also. The writer has not learned what par- 
ticular charges as a preacher he had there. The Lone 
Star State did not hold Osborne long, for he returned to 
Tennessee prior to 1860 and was identified with the Mis- 


Or EGBERT HAYWOOD OSBORNE. 


17 


sionary Baptist Church in West Tennessee and North 
Mississippi in counties bordering the State line. He also 
took an interest in politics, and in the great political de- 
bates of 1860 took active part, as he had done in 1856. 
In politics he was a partisan and intensely Democratic. 
In the campaign of 1856 he met in joint debate at the 
old courthouse at Purdy in McNairy County, Congress- 
man Kit Williams, a distinguished Whig advocate, of Hen- 
derson County, and at Bolivar in Hardeman County he 
also met in joint debate Benton, of the State of Mississippi, 
a distinguished Whig of that State. In these debates Os- 
borne advocated the Buchanan ticket and the others the 
Fillmore ticket, the Freemont ticket finding no advocates 
in this section. 

Prior to the war as well as afterwards Osborne was a 
great temperance lecturer, and delivered lectures and 
speeches in aid of the great popular wave of temperance 
reform, propagated and fostered by the organization 
known as “ The Sons of Temperance.” Whatever may 
have been the opinion of many concerning that popular 
movement, it was productive of very much -good. It was 
in the fifties when the wave was at its zenith, and it was 
probably the first great movement in Tennessee towards 
the alienation of society from the famous sideboard, the 
jug in the closet, and the cross-roads log cabin grocery 
and all the evils resulting from the well-nigh universal 
use of the flowing bowl. That Osborne himself was ad- 
dicted to the habit is true, but in this he was not unlike 
the average Tennessean of those days. Men of all stations, 
of all degrees, then felt no loss of self-respect by that 
damaging, dangerous custom, but probably no man in 
Tennessee or elsewhere ever did or said more locally in 
an intellectual way to banish the evil of intemperance or 
to depopularize it than Egbert H. Osborne. It was, 
however, as a pulpit orator that Osborne’s power was 
greatest ; even previous to the war he was a great favorite 


18 


LIFE, LECTURES AND POETRY 


as a preacher and his eloquent sermons have captivated 
audiences in most, if not all of the counties in West 
Tennessee, at one time or another, and it is to be re- 
gretted that many of his pulpit masterpieces have not 
been preserved for a place in this volume. His logic, 
his rhetoric, and great eloquence, made him a central 
figure as a preacher, a lecturer and public speaker, 
wherever he was known. He was known, at least, in 
the counties of McNairy, Hardeman, Fayette, Shelby, 
Hawood, Crockett, Madison, Chester, Gibson and 
Obion. 

Rev. John Murdaugh, a venerable Baptist preacher of 
Chester County, whom a kind Providence has preserved to 
a good old age, knew and heard Osborne when quite a 
young man, and before the marriage of Mr. Osborne, 
and relates with a great deal of pleasure some very inter- 
esting reminiscences connected with the life of the great 
orator. He heard Mr. Osborne describe his first effort 
to preach a sermon from a Bible text, and of his absolute 
failure. He said that from the pulpit he read the 8th 
chapter of St. John, verses 1 to 11 ; announced a text, 
and, in attempting to preach, he spoke of the woman 
referred to in the Scripture read, as the poor unfortunate 
woman ; and at that sentence balked and could go no 
further. He repeated that sentence several times audi- 
bly, but could think of nothing else to say, but the poor 
unfortunate woman. It was somehow too much for him 
and he had to abandon his sermon and went home with 
h t’odelivered. Fs said he was haunted as he went home 
o/ i he expression anti the words he had uttered seemed 
to c r ng to him as i e went along the road and everything 
he heard, even the lowing of the cows, the singing of the 
birds, and the moaning of the winds, seemed to be saying : 
“ The Poor Unfortunate Woman.” History teaches us 
that Egbert Osborne was not the only great orator whose 
first effort was a failure. This same authority, like every 


OF EGBERT HAYWOOD OSBORNE. 


19 


one who heard him, tells of his transcendent qualities as an 
orator in and out of the pulpit, and he often had occasion 
to demonstrate his prowess. He was a member of the 
Independent Order of Odd Fellows, and delivered lectures 
of thrilling eloquence, in behalf of the tenets of that mag- 
nificent charity. Dr. W. B. Spencer is authority for the 
statement that as early as 1857 he was delivering Odd Fel- 
lows lectures, the towns of Trenton, and Gadsden as well 
as others heard him on that subject. After Mr. Osborne’s 
return from Texas and subsequent experience as a Baptist 
preacher, he moved from a place near Bolivar to Ripley, 
Miss., to practice law, and remained at Ripley until the 
Civil War began and then he volunteered in the First 
Mississippi Regiment under Col. R. A. Pinson, and was 
made chaplain thereof. With what success he practiced 
law at Ripley the few months before the war began, or to 
what extent he remained in the army as a chaplain, the 
writer is not fully informed. It must have been in the 
spring of 1861 that he moved to Ripley, Miss., and very 
soon thereafter that he joined Pinson’s regiment. He is 
known to have preached many very excellent sermons to 
the soldiers while serving as chaplain. In 1862 and 1863 
his home seems to have been at Ripley and subsequently 
at and near Bolivar, Tenn. When the war questions were 
discussed Osborne took an active part therein, and when 
volunteers were called for he made frequent speeches advo- 
cating enlistments in the Southern Army, and from such 
eloquent lips as bis there could be but one result. The 
young men went to the army. Much of the time during 
the war Osborne was at home, though often with the sol- 
diers, but as a preacher and not as a soldier further than 
the term might be applied to a chaplain. He preached 
to the Southern soldiers even after he had ceased to be a 
member of Pinson’s regiment. The period of time cov- 
ered by the war furnishes few instances for mention in 
tins volume, as Osborne’s life was mainly that of a civil- 


20 


LIFE, LECTURES AND POETRY 


ian, and at this date it is difficult to obtain facts con- 
cerning him during much of that period. 

Life in West Tennessee and North Mississippi during 
the few years of the Civil War was scarcely uneventful 
to any one, much less to one so brilliant in intellect and 
powerful in oratory, as was E. H. Osborne. That he 
found time for literary work during the war is evidenced 
by many pieces of prose and poetry now before the 
writer in his own handwriting, bearing the dates of that 
interesting period of our country’s history. In the early 
part of the war he is found writing poetry upon the death 
of two of his cousins, the Messrs. Grove, who were 
killed in battle: one at Shiloh on the morning of the 
second day’s fight, April 7, 1862, and one at Medon the 
31st August, 1862, and much later upon the prowess of 
the Wizard of the Saddle, Gen. N. B. Forrest. These 
poems are published elsewhere in this volume; they are 
worthy of being read and read again. 

Much has been written of the battle of Shiloh, but no 
one can ever know just how much success or defeat, in 
that great battle, meant to the South. Had the greatest 
general of the war, Albert Sidney Johnston, lived till 
nightfall the 6th of April, 1862, the poem of Egbert 
Osborne referred to would not have been written and the 
grandest army of untrained volunteers ever gathered 
under one banner would have annihilated or captured the 
army of the great Federal General Grant and rendered 
his subsequent distinguished career impossible. Tennes- 
see vvill ever be proud of the part taken in this great 
battle by her soldiers. Scarcely a section of the State but 
was represented there. While the death of so many 
noble young Madison County men from the ranks of the 
famous Sixth Tennessee Infantry is a matter of sincere 
regret, the record made by that regiment for gallantry 
on that sanguinary field is a particular pride to Madison 
County people and will continue to be a sacred heritage 


OF EGBERT HAYWOOD OSBORNE. 


21 


to her succeeding generations. This battle, in some 
respects the most remarkable of any during the war, was 
the first to occur in that section, as well as the first that 
very many of the Southern soldiers were ever engaged in, 
and it is a little curious to note how the citizens through- 
out the country were attracted thither. Men on horseback 
and afoot from every conceivable direction gathered as 
spectators, many to learn the fate of kindred and very 
many to see and know something of the novelty of a 
full grown battle. It is also curious to note how slowly 
great armies move, how well a great disaster is concealed 
from the friends of the stricken, and how a defeated 
army is allowed in the very shadow of the victors to 
gather up their stragglers and and mend their broken lines. 
Such was illustrated during and after that memorable bat- 
tle ; it is also somewhat strange to know of the number who 
fought so courageously for the South in that great battle 
and walked away from the army after the battle was over 
and never again re entered it; and it seems passing 
strange, but nevertheless true, in exceptional cases, that 
after courageously fighting for two days at Shiloh, a 
number straggled away from the Southern army and sub- 
sequently joined the Union army. It is also strange but 
true, that in the Federal army subsequent to Shiloh 
and throughout the war in West Tennessee, in a country 
hostile to them, there were found men who secretly sold 
fire-arms to Southern soldiers through citizen sympathizers 
for speculation, but such are cold facts. There were also 
instances in West Tennessee, of Federal soldiers deserting 
the Union army and joining the Confederate forces when 
their cause must have appeared almost if not altogether 
hopeless. These facts not usually mentioned in books 
nor generally known among the masses, do not and 
should not, weaken our faith in the boasted patriotism 
of the Southern or the Northern people, nor weaken 
us in our high opinion of the average soldier who fought 


22 


LIFE, LECTURES AND POETRY 


the war on either side. Nor is it cause to question his 
fealty to his country, but they illustrate the fact that 
men in war time, like other times, are only folks and that 
it took all kinds of minds then as now, to make the 
aggregate. The following summer after the battle of 
Shiloh, saw the Federal armies stationed at the impor- 
tant cities and towns of West Tennessee, and detachments 
stationed at very many villages and railway stations. 
Such was the military condition of West Tennessee at the 
time Mr. Osborne’s cousin was killed at Medon in Madi- 
son County, the 3 1st August, 1862. That skirmish at 
Medon occurred the day previous to the sharp but inde- 
cisive battle at Brittain’s lane in Madison County. While 
there was heroic lighting done on that battle-field by pri- 
vate soldiers, no particular credit is thought to be due 
those in command on either side of that engagement. 
Later in the war the condition of West Tennessee was 
such, that it was occupied alternately by soldiers of the 
Federal and Confederate armies, and in looking backward 
to that time, there are reasons to suppose that life among 
citizens was nearly intolerable, but such was not the case, 
and as a general thing the people got along much better 
than anyone would imagine. It is true, however, that the 
closing years of the war furnished its scenes of horror and 
bloodshed to very many parts of West Tennessee, and 
probably as much so as in any section of the country ; there 
were no courts to punish offenders, no juries to prefer in- 
dictments, and force was law; retaliation by opposing 
forces was common, citizens in sympathy with an absent 
army were punished by the one present, but such things 
would naturally arise under such circumstances. But the 
worst trouble to people who were not in the army came 
from those who pretended to be soldiers and were 
not. Groups of desperate characters formed them- 
selves in bands for rapine, theft, and robbery, and as- 
sumed soldiers’ uniforms for the purpose of getting their 


OF EGBERT HAYWOOD OSBORNE. 


23 


depredations charged to soldiers. Many persons who 
were supposed to have money were aroused at night by 
such wretches and escaped being murdered by giving up 
to the ruffians what money they had laid by for a rainy 
day. These banditti were no respecters of persons, and 
stole and robbed from those in sympathy with the side 
they assumed with the same impunity they did as to 
others. Some of these narrowly escaped being shot as a 
punishment by regular soldiers, because they were con- 
sidered to be degenerate sons of much more worthy sires. 

As the war dragged on there was much time for those 
at home to do literary work, if so inclined. And 
Osborne seems to have availed himself of it when at 
home, though he was at home only a part of the time. 

Quite an interesting incident is related of Egbert H. 
Osborne’s preaching a sermon to a body of Federal sol- 
diers during the war. The incident is somewhat famous 
and the writer has heard it related by a great number of 
people; most persons who knewOsborne intimately have 
heard of it, and it is related with varying details ; all re- 
ports of the incident agree as to generalities and none 
as to minute detail. From those most familiar with the 
incident it is learned to have been about as follows : Rev. 
E. H. Osborne had been with the Confederate army, and 
from home a considerable length of time. He was, as is 
well known, at that time very poor; besides, it is a fact 
that it wa3 difficult to buy clothing or anything else, 
even if one had the money. He had worn his clothing 
about as long as could be done with propriety even in 
those days, and presented a very grotesque, even seedy 
appearance. He was en route home from the Confederate 
lines, then in North Mississippi, and at some point in West 
Tennessee, and many persons locate it from recollection 
at as many different places, but evidently not far from 
the Mississippi State line; he was arrested by a troop of 
Federal cavalry and by them held a prisoner of war; his 


24 


LIFE, LECTURES AND POETRY 


keen eye must have made an impression on the soldiers, 
for they and their commander believed him to be a Con- 
federate spy, and no amount of denial by him seemed to 
satisfy them; he told them he was not even a soldier but 
was an humble minister of the gospel, a follower of the 
meek and lowly Jesus Christ ; this they refused to be- 
lieve and threatened to have him shot as a spy. It was 
a common practice and was recognized as legitimate in 
civilized warfare, to kill any one who was known to be 
a spy. He, of course, was frightened and pleaded for 
them to allow the preacher to go his way. No one be- 
lieved his story and it was jocularly proposed that he 
give evidence of the faith that was in him by preaching 
a sermon to the soldiers, and if he failed to thus prove 
his statement that they would shoot him on the spot; he 
assured them he did not like to do what might appear 
sacreligious, but he would, in good faith, preach them a 
sermon, and the terms named were agreed to — “ A Ser- 
mon for a Life.” 

There was a fallen tree near the roadside upon whose 
trunk he was directed to stand and preach for his life. 
He did so. Around him in many groups were seated 
bluecoated soldiers, in hilarious mood ; some were seated 
near by, playing cards and others in gleeful jocular con- 
versation and at first but few condescended to give atten- 
tion. Osborne announced his text in clear accents from 
the 27th chapter of Ezekiel: “ Son of Man, can these 
bones live?” And upon the interesting theory of the 
soul’s immortality as outlined in that famous prophecy, 
he electrified the soldiers ; his eloquence was equal to 
the occasion of a sermon for a life, and well did Osborne 
do his part; the glow of his matchless eloquence caught 
the attention of the unconcerned; conversation ceased ; 
cards were thrown aside and respectful attention was 
riveted upon the preacher by all present. They were hear- 
ing the master sermon of the age ! The occasion was 


OF EGBERT HAYWOOD OSBORNE. 


25 


supreme, the very soul of Osborne was fixed with enthu- 
siastic fervor; his appearance was transformed into an 
intellectual giant; his flashing eye, his raven black hair, 
beaming countenance and magnetic oratory, had cap- 
tured his audience ; a number of the soldiers were in tears. 
Osborne was no longer a prisoner and there were no 
further charges against him of being a spy. His elo- 
quence and learning had won him the victory, and he 
was released ; the soldiers crowded around him, praising 
his sermon, bidding him god-speed on his way ; they 
made him a present of a white or gray mare upon which 
he was directed to ride home, and keep for his own use. 
He kept this animal for years after the close of the war, 
and called it “ the white horse of the Gospel.” 

At the close of the war in the spring of 1865, Osborne 
was financially in the same condition of the great major- 
ity; he was poor and had a dependent family, but in 
some sections of West Tennessee where soldiers returned 
home from both Confederate and Federal armies, it was 
difficult to realize just when the war did close, there 
was so much retaliation, bloodshed, and bitterness that 
only time could allay. The true soldiers in the war who 
went out from West Tennessee were not excelled in pat- 
riotism, bravery or devotion to their cause by soldiers from 
any other section whatever ; their bravery is attested on 
very many well fought fields and there are silent witnesses 
to this fact in the hills and vales of that favored section, 
in the bones of her martyred dead, which fertilize the 
soils they made more sacred. After the close of the 
war, very many houses in West Tennessee had still their 
vacant chairs; much of the best blood was sacrificed in 
battle; many soldiers who would have made good citi- 
zens had to go elsewhere to live, and some lost their 
lives in attempting to remain at home. The war had 
raged so long and so fierce, and industries had so lan- 
guished that much of West Tennessee was in a deplor- 


26 


LIFE, LECTURES AND POETRY 


able condition. Houses were out of repair, fences 
dilapidated, roads had not been worked and in many 
places were abandoned; schoolhouses, churches, and 
burial grounds were out of repair and very much dilap- 
idated, and in very many sections, deer, wild turkey and 
other game abounded in the woods, and the streams were 
well stocked with fish ; there had been so little oppor- 
tunity for hunting that game flourished and found safe 
retreat in the forests of many localities in WestTennessee. 
Such was the condition of things at the announcement of 
peace; such was the country, such the times, that con- 
fronted the people when Egbert Osborne entered upon his 
post-war career in West Tennessee. 

It was in 1865 that he located in Madison County 
to again teach school and preach to her people. He was 
at that time poor and had considerable family, and he 
must do something to earn a living for his family. During 
the few years of the war schools had been much neglected 
and in some sections of the country wholly so. People, 
seeing the importance of education to the children of that 
day, were willing to pay for school teaching, and Mr. 
Osborne became an assistant teacher in a school at White- 
hall in the Second Civil District of Madison County, Mr. 
O. C. Emmerson being the principal. Osborne also 
preached in the same building and in the same section, 
and in 1866 he became principal of the Whitehall School. 
He was not unknown as a preacher in that section, for he 
had preached and lectured previous to the war in some sec- 
tions of Madison County. It is said that shortly after he 
became a Baptist preacher — as early as the year 1852 — 
he preached the introductory sermon to the Big Hatchie 
Association at Denmark. It is said that on that occasion 
in that early day his sermon was such as to give him great 
fame and to show him as a star in oratory of the first 
magnitude. It was so regarded by the people of Den- 
mark, who were then recognized as among the most re- 


OF EGBERT HAYWOOD OSBORNE. 


27 


fined, educated and wealthy of the land. The sermon 
Osborne preached on that occasion has been denomina- 
ted his “ deluge sermon ” and was of and concerning 
the Hood in Noah’s time. 

It was in 1866 that probably the most general advance 
was made by the churches in the country districts of West 
Tennessee that has ever been known. Of course there 
was then greater room for improvement, a greater field 
for labor in that direction. A great tidal wave of religious 
enthusiasm swept over the country, churches were rehab- 
ilitated, reorganized and set to work again. In this line 
of work Mr. Osborne did well his part. 

The condition of the country at that time was in many 
respects similar to the pioneer days. The people had gone 
to work to resuscitate their farms, to rebuild their fences, 
their houses and their barns, all of which had so long been 
neglected. Log rollings, house raisings, rail splittings, 
cotton pickings and quiltings were conmon among the 
farmers, and indeed seemed necessary to again set the 
countrv on its feet. With these gatherings for work came 
features of amusement. Play and dance parties were the 
order of the day among the young, the cotillon and the 
old Virginia reel and the strains of the violin in their old- 
fashioned tunes had then their day. It is hoped that the 
youths of the present day may do no more in dissipation. 
Money was then abundant. Shin-plasters, i. e., paper 
money of denominations under -a dollar, were used for 
small change; everybody that would try then had money. 
Cotton brought 12^ cents per pound in the seed. Corn, 
wheat, pork, labor, land and everything else was high. 
The writer remembers to have hired to pick cotton at $2 
per hundred pounds. Everybody was at work and it 
does seem that if the prices of labor and farm products 
had continued as they then were, everyone in West Ten- 
nessee could have got rich that wanted to. 

Men who were inclined to merchandise brought stocks 


28 


LIFE, LECTURES AND POETRY 


of goods to every railroad station, town and hamlet in 
the country, and trading and speculation were rampant. 
With these came whisky shops, society’s great enemy. 
Wherever a store was opened, whisky was sold in some 
form, if not in a saloon it was sold from the back room of 
dry goods stores, and drinking was very general. In 
sections of country where the people were politically 
divided in the war, they were still divided. In society, 
in churches, in amusements and in everything but busi- 
ness, those who were in sympathy with each other in the 
war, found congenial companionship and for a while were 
wholly distinct in association from those with whom they 
differed in the war. There were exceptions to the rule as 
there are to all rules. And in looking backward to those 
times it seems strange to observe that in the very sections 
where feeling was highest and prejudice and bitterness 
greatest during and following the war, the people later 
became the most liberal and were the first to recognize 
the right of others to differ with them. They are now 
probably freer from prejudice and fraternize with each 
other more than in other sections. In 1865 and 1866 
Egbert H. Osborne found time to deliver lectures upon 
the prevalent evil of intemperance and other subjects, 
and wherever it was known he would speak great crowds 
would flock to hear him. He lectured in the magnificent 
brick school building at Spring Creek in Madison County, 
Tenn.jto the faculty students and the public. This famous 
institution of learning, called the “ Madison College,” 
under direction of the West Tennessee Baptist Conven- 
tion, had greatly prospered previous to the war and 
attracted students from far and near; it was a school of 
great reputation and a pride to West Tennesseeans. The 
writer can remember when a boy in a neighboring county 
of others going off to college at Spring Creek, and as it 
may interest the younger people to know what efforts 
were made in an educational way outside the cities a 


OF EGBERT HAYWOOD OSBORNE. 


29 


picture of the building and campus is reproduced in this 
volume. It is said that Jeremiah P. Houghton, Esq., 
of Spring Creek, Tenn., paid a great part of the money 
to build the splendid 3-story college, and this fact is a 
monument to his memory ; he has been dead some years. 
The writer has before him a catalogue of the officers and 
students of that institution of learning for 1858 and 9, 
and will here continue to digress and give the same, 
as those who build and maintain so great an enter- 
prise deserve at least to be remembered. The Board of 
Trustees were Alexander Askew, Spring Creek ; Jeremiah 
Crook, Jacks Creek, Henderson County; Sami P. Clark, 
Shady Grove, Carroll County ; Rev. Reuben Day, Jack- 
son, Tenn. ; Jeremiah Houghton, Sprink Creek; Jacob 
Hill, Jackson, Tenn.; A. K. Jones, Mifflin, Henderson 
County ; Rev. Aaron Jones, jr., Jackson, Tenn.; W. T. 
Key, Spring Creek; John L. Moore, Jackson, Tenn.; 
Rev. M. H. Neal, Lavinia, Carroll County ; Robert Nes- 
bet, M. D., Bluff Springs, Tenn.; Rev. William Nolin, 
Daucyville; Henderson Owen, Memphis ; Jno.K. Pearce, 
Trenton; Jno. C. Rogers, M. D., Spring Creek; Joseph 
R. Rutledge, Brownsville; Wm. Rhodes, Champion- 
ville ; Rev. W. Shelton, Brownsville; Rev. A. A. San- 
ders, Purdy; R. S. Thomas, Brownsville; Jno. West, 
M. D., Lexington; Jno. R. Woolfolk, Cotton Grove; 
Rev. Geo. W. Young, Durhamville. 

The faculty consisted of: Rev. Joseph R. Hamilton, 
President; Rev. J. B. White, W. T. Bennett, Charles 
Watson, Alexander Askew Bursar. 

The students were: John Askew, Joseph D. Askew, 
Jno. O. Askew, W. J. F. Allen, S. M. Allen, Jno. D. 
Cocke, C. C. Conner, Jos. D. Castellaw, Jno. P. Clark, 
J. B. Cullen, M. L. Day, A. J. Dawson, J. B. Day, 
Thos. C. Day, Thos. J. Dowling, Rufus Donnell, Geo. 
W. Fly, Hezekiah Gray, W. Curry Gray, Wm. P. God- 
win, F. B. Godwin, T. H. Godwin, J. G. Gilliken, D. 


30 


LIFE, LECTURES AND POETRY 


H. Grant, S. P. Gillmore, N. Holland, J. K. Holland, 
A. G. Hau^hton, T. M. Hutchinson, James Herron, Geo. 
W. Hill, J7 M. Harrell, H. C. Irby, P. S. Irby, W. D. 
Irby, L. R. Irby, H. H. Jones, Demetrius Lacy, Wyatt 
Mooring, J. R. Mooring, Chris T. Mooring, W. W. 
Mills, Jas. W. Mills, Thos. B. Mills, H. H. Mills, J. F. 
March, W. W. Manly, J. W. Nowell, T. E. Prewitt, B. 

F. Prewitt, W. H. Prewitt, Robt. Paine, Win. Peacock, 
W. 11. Parker, J. F. Richardson, H. H. Rhymes, T. R. 
Short, W. N. Shinault, G. T. Sells, T. C. Skinner, Sion 
Skipper, Thos. H. Simpson, E. L. Sanders, Lindsay 
Sanders, R. L. Smith, R. S. Thomas, Clinton Trottman, 

G. W. Tatum, Chas. T. Watson, L. D. Walton, J. V. 
Woods, Chris. C. Woods, T. H. Winfield, B. W. Wil- 
kerson, R. A. Williford, Ferdinand Wood, John Wool- 
folk. 

Mr. Osborne was in these years a preacher of great 
ability and eloquence, and was very much in demand both 
as a preacher and a lecturer. But he had a weakness for 
the prevalent evil of the day, that of drink. He was 
subject to a heart trouble and it is said that physicians 
prescribed stimulants for that trouble and that when it 
was taken even for that purpose a burning thirst for such 
dangerous stuff quite got the better of him, and this 
gave him very much trouble with his church connections. 
Immediately after the war the doors of several churches 
were turned against him; churches, too, where he 
had preached and was popular. In Bolivar he ap- 
proached Rev. W. M. Norment of the Cumberland 
Presbyterian church and told him that he had acted 
badly and the doors of his church were closed against 
him, but that God and Cynthia (his wife), knew he had 
repented in sackcloth and ashes and he felt he was par- 
doned for his misgivings ; that he had lectured at the 
courthouse on Old Testament characters; but he wanted 
to preach ; he wanted to do good and felt he could 


Madison College. 

Spring Creek, Madison County, Tenn., 1859. 


OF EGBERT HAYWOOD OSBORNE 


31 





32 


LIFE, LECTURES AND POETRY 


do more with his tongue than otherwise. Mr. Nor- 
ment tendered him the use of the Cumberland church 
at Whiteville. He wrote some young men, who had 
served with him in the army, to publish him an appoint- 
ment which they did and he tilled the appointment much 
to their and the congregation’s satisfaction. He was 
subsequently invited to aid in a revival in the same 
church, which he did, preaching alternately with the 
now venerable Dr. Moorman, who, thanks to a kind Prov- 
idence, still survives to charm those with whom he comes 
in contact with reminiscences of the long ago. Madison 
Hall, a non-denominational church in Madison County, 
was tendered him and when appointments were made for 
him vast crowds of people flocked to hear him, and the 
same result followed when the Presbyterian church at 
Jackson was tendered him. Such was his power as a 
pulpit orator that he captured his hearers at all times and 
tinder all circumstances. His chosen denomination, the 
Baptist church, with open arms took him back to preach 
for them and all the churches were re-opened to him; his 
people flocked to hear him wherever he preached oi 
lectured; they were proud of him. Many persons in 
Jackson will remember the sermons preached by him at 
the old Baptist church on Market street, which stood 
about where the Landis shop now is, as well as the 
lectures he delivered at the old courthouse at Jackson. 
Moreover, in his career subsequent to the war, he was 
demanded in very many places both to lecture and to 
preach, at Bethel Springs, at Purdy, at Montezuma, at 
Henderson, Pinson, Bells, Gadsden, Humboldt, and at 
very, very many places he preached or lectured, and dur- 
ing the administration of Governor D. W. C. Senter he 
lectured at Nashville on temperance, and, of course, 
charmed those who heard him. 

He resided much of his time after the war at Medon, 
in Madison County, and at Bells in Crocket County, and 


OF EGBERT HAYWOOD OSBORNE. 


33 


on the 19th day of April, 1867, he was made a Master 
Mason in Medon Lodge, No. 166, at the town of Medon, 
in Madison County, Tenn., and subsequently became a 
distinguished Masonic lecturer. The writer heard him 
preach a Masonic sermon at Purdy the 24th day of June, 



Courthouse at Jackson, Tenn. 
As it was in 1870. 


1870, and was enraptured with his eloquence, and of 
course formed a good opinion of the order. The writer, 
when quite a young man, read a temperance lecture of 
Mr. Osborne’s, of very great merit, which furnished 
him much entertainment and pleasure. The writer 
remembers to have attended a Sunday School picnic 

a 


34 


LIFE, LECTURES AND POETRY 


at Jackson, Tenn., in the year 1870, to which many 
came on excursion trains from adjoining counties, and the 
speakers on that occasion were Hon. Jefferson Davis, 
ex-president of the Confederacy, Rev. Henderson, a dis- 
tinguished divine and a delegate from Kentucky to the 
Methodist General Conference then being held at Mem- 
phis, Tenn., and Egbert H. Osborne. The writer had 
never seen President Davis before, but knew of his ability 
and was much astonished that the eloquence of Osborne 
far outstripped that of either of the very distinguished 
speakers. It was said that Mr. Osborne was intimately 
acquainted with, and a great admirer of the distinguished 
orator, soldier and statesman, Gen. Wm. T. Haskell, and 
that he never felt greater complimented than when some 
admiring friend would for him claim equality in oratory 
with Haskeil. Gen. W. T. Haskell was a citizen of 
Jackson, Tenn., and a great orator, and notwithstanding 
his frailties the people are proud of his memory, and 
anything said of him is interesting. It is related of him 
that at a very early day in Jackson when he was a young 
man, he was very much in love with a young lady, a 
belle of some other town in Tennessee, that she was 
visiting in Jackson, as was also some young men from 
another section, and as was then the custom, a cotillon 
party was given in their honor and for the entertainment 
of the young people then in society. In the progress 
of the entertainment a waltz was proposed, which was 
entirely unknown in Jackson at that time, and young 
Haskell’s sweetheart was the only lady in the ball room 
who understood how to waltz, and she and one of the 
visiting young men, arm, in arm waltzed, much to the 
pleasure and astonishment of others. But it displeased 
Mr. Haskell to see the arms of another encircling one 
whom he loved, even though it was a part in the new 
dance, and he wholly abandoned paying her his atten- 
tions, x and the~next day wrote a poem, indicating his 


OF EGBERT HAYWOOD OSBORNE. 


35 


displeasure, which was afterwards published, only two 
lines of which is remembered by the writer’s informant, 
and they are as follows : — 

“ From the tremulous rose you have shaken the dew; 

What you’ve touched, you may take, pretty waltzer adieu.” 

This incident, the first w'altz in Jackson, is vouched 
for by Mrs. Sarah Taylor, heretofore mentioned in this 
sketch, and the writer is inclined to further digress to 
say, she was born in Laurens District, South Carolina, 
of Irish parents, the 15th December, 1816, and came to 
Jackson in the winter of 1826-7. Her maiden name was 
McClannahan; she had five brothers, four of whom were 
lawyers ; she still survives and is well preserved. She 
states that in those early days, the Forked Deer river had 
a greater volume of water than now, and that there was 
much travel and freight traffic upon it ; she states that she 
has seen as many as seventeen keel boats on the Forked 
Deer, at the landing at Jackson., at onetime; that a great 
many immigrants came to this country on such boats, 
coming down the Cumberland, Ohio, and Mississippi, 
and up the Forked Deer, carrying their families, their 
negroes, and entire belongings, being prepared to cook, 
eat, and sleep in these primitive crafts. 

It is said that a notable speech was made by Mr. Osborne 
in the city of Jackson at the cemetery where the Confed- 
erate dead are buried. It was shortly after the introduc- 
tion of the beautiful custom of decorating the soldiers’ 
graves, and was probably the second occasion of the kind. 
His speech was a great one and it is remembered that his 
peroration culminated when, with a glance of his keen 
eyes first upon the numerous mounds and then towards 
heaven, he said : 44 What ! Dead? No, not dead, they’re 
sleeping! ” 

On the 24th day of February, 1870, Mrs. Cynthia 
Osborne, the wife of E. H. Osborne, died, greatly 




SB 


LIFE, LECTURES AND POETRY 



Confederate Soldiers’ Graves at Riverside Cemetery, Jackson, Tenn. 
What! Dead? No, not dead! They’re sleeping. 



OF EGBERT HAYWOOD OSBORNE. 


37 


lamented. She had borne him nine children, and had 
been his earthly comforter. There are reasons to believe 
that Mr. Osborne never thought he had made the success 
in life he should have done, owing probably to the frail- 
ties he, more than anyone, regretted. It is said that at 
a Sunday-school celebration at Hays chapel, in the west 
part of Madison County, where he was the orator of the 
day, he met Dr. Allen Bruce, with whom he had at- 
tended college, a genius and upon whom money had been 
lavished for educational purposes by his parents, but 
whose life had been a disappointment in some respects, 
and in conversation with him Mr. Osborne gave vent to 
feelings of disappointment as to his own success. In 
much of Osborne’s poetry there seems to be a vein of sad- 
ness, of melancholy and disappointment. But Osborne 
had “ builded better than he knew,” he was a success, his 
life was not a failure ; true, he had his faults, so has every- 
one. But he was a successful orator ! as a pulpit orator, 
and as a lecturer he was a brilliant success. Many per- 
sons are better men and women for his having lived, lec- 
tured and preached and his lectures will live and be 
appreciated as long as the English language is read. 

On the 20th of July, 1870, Mr. Osborne was again 
married to Miss Bettie Crisp, a sister to his former wife. 
She survived him and is yet living. She bore him one 
child. 

The few last years of Mr. Osborne’s life, though bur- 
dened with a large family and saddened by sickness and 
death in his household, probably found him stronger 
mentally than at any time. 

The writer has never believed in man-worship, is not 
inclined to overestimate character in anyone, nor to laud 
one beyond his just deserts and, in biography, is some- 
what a believer in the policy indicated by remarks of 
Shakespeare, “Nothing extenuate, nor set down aught 
in malice.” 


38 


LIFE, LECTURES AND POETRY 


t In the opinion of the writer, Osborne was a very great 
man ; he had his faults — in this he was like the balance 
of humanity. He knew his faults, and advised others to 
shun them : in this he was unlike very many people. As 
an orator the writer thinks he never heard him sur- 
passed. His imagery was sublime and his flights of elo- 
quence were superb and carried his hearers into realms 
of thoughtfulness his genius alone seemed capable of. 
Wherever he had previously preached, the announce- 
ment of Osborne would insure a congregation. It cannot 
and should not be denied that the fact that he some- 
times drank, weakened his influence as a preacher, 
and many could have no patience with such weakness 
in one holding so lofty a position. But he and not 
society was the sufferer from that seeming inherent 
weakness. But for that there was scarcely a field of labor 
where he could not have aspired, hardly a salary asked 
would have been denied him. He was poor at all times, 
and it is probably the greatest tribute to his character to 
say that, notwithstanding his faults and in the midst of 
poverty he was greatly admired and loved by the great 
mass of those who knew him, and this admiration was 
not confined to sect or creed. He was very much in 
demand during the closing years of his life at Masonic 
funerals, and in that capacity seemed at home, and 
beautifully told the story of Christ and blended it with 
the virtues and hopes of that ancient and honorable 
order. Himself a Mason, he knew the mystic tie that 
binds, and well did he depict the tenets and share the 
hopes of that mystic order in its Acacian dream of im- 
mortality. He knew the baleful influence of drink 
probably as well as any one, and had he lived in this age 
could have recounted his own mistakes and faults from the 
pulpit or the rostrum, a feat he never attempted. The 
manful fight he made and the forceful lectures he deliv- 
ered against the evil of drink, mark him a wonderful man. 


OF EGBERT HAYWOOD OSBORNE. 


39 


It is said that from West Tennessee Mr. Osborne 
went to some point in Kentucky and preached for awhile 
and from there to Gallatin in Sumner County, Tenn., 
where he was pastor of the Gallatin Baptist church at 
the time of his death in 1873. There he was held in 
high esteem by his church members, who felt keenly the 
loss when he died, and among other resolutions passed 
by them was the following: — 

TRIBUTE OF RESPECT BY THE GALLATIN BAPTIST CHURCH. 

“ Resolved , That in the death of Elder E. H. Osborne, 
this church has lost a model pastor, who was possessed 
of all the Christian virtues; and the community a citizen 
of whom any people might be proud. 

“ That with all his superiority and transcendent genius 
as a pulpit orator, he was meek, humble, and unostenta- 
tious. 

“ That one of earth’s brightest jewels has been lost 
and garnered in the sacred archives of heaven, and 
though lost to us, with his ashes entombed in the city of 
the dead, and his spirit basking and bathing and satisfy- 
ing its yearnings in the glorious splendors and celestial 
sweets of a never-ending eternity, we will ever cherish 
in the sacred precincts of the heart and urn in the gilded 
chambers of memory, the fondest and dearest recollec- 
tions of Egbert Haywood Osborne, our loved pastor, and 
profit by the Christian example he set us. 

“ M. S. Elkin, 

“ J. N. Guthrie, 

k£ Committee.” 

That he stood high in the community where he died is 
also shown by Hon. J. A. Trousdale, of Gallatin, in a 
letter to the writer dated July 4, 1897, from which is 
quoted the following: — 

“I cherish a very pleasant recollection of Mr. 
Osborne. My first intimate contact with him was during 


40 


LIFE, LECTURES AND POETRY 


the cholera visitation here in May and June, 1873. I sat 
up with him repeatedly during his illness which he was 
conscious would terminate fatally and noted with aston- 
ishment his uniform cheerfulness and utter indifference 
to his approaching doom. He became very popular here 
and his great eloquence together with his genial, compan- 



Bethel Springs, McNairy County, Tenn. 

About 1873-4. 

ionable disposition, attracted large audiences to the church 
which was so fortunate as to have him as its pastor.’ ’ 
ps The testimony of Mr. Trousdale concerning his cheer- 
fulness when at death’s door shows there was apparently 
a compliance with a long-cherished desire of Mr. Osborne 
to meet death with a smile and without fear. The 31st of 
December, 1862, he wrote the following: “ Whenever or 


OF EGBERT HAYWOOD OSBORNE. 


41 


in whatever form death comes to me, may I be ready to 
meet the ‘ king of terrors ’ with a smile, and welcome 
him as the great peace maker!” Had the lectures of 
Osborne been prepared and delivered in the intellectual 
atmosphere of Cambridge, Princeton, or Georgetown, 
there is scarcely a literary journal of merit but would 
have gladly paraded before the American public his every 
act, and kept his memory green for the good he had done 
mankind, hence, Tennesseeans who heard Osborne in 
his day, and remember his penetrating eyes as he ran his 
fingers through his raven-colored hair, preparatory to a 
peroration in the pulpit, or on the rostrum, will be 
manly enough to pardon the writer should they conclude 
something had been neglected that ought to have been 
said in this hastily prepared sketch. 

Oblivion should not close the scene, 

Where Egbert Osborne stood ; 

True eloquence where’er he’s been 
Has now diviner mood. 

We heard him when relentless war 
Had scarcely gone away; 

Fond hopes and dreams, and brighter star, 

Were borne in Osborne’s day. 

We saw the sparkling eye of him, 

In fond oration given; 

From moistened eyes our sight grew dim, 

When pointed he to heaven. 

Full high with hope, unnumbered creeds, 

His gleaming wit inspired; 

He shaped the thoughts for him that reads, 

“ And shouting hosts ” admired. 

Great words there did in splendor flow 
In majesty sublime; 

His hearers caught the spirit’s glow 
In Egbert Osborne’s time. 

Long live the words which Osborne spoke, 

Though his great spirit’s flown. 

The slumbering pathos ever woke 
At words of Osborne’s own. 

A. W. Stovall. 


Jackson, Tenn. 


42 


LIFE, LECTURES AND POETRY 


MISSION OF THE YOUNG MEN OF THE SOUTH. 

In attempting to walk with unsanclaled feet, amid the 
devious intricacies of the present theme, I beg you to 
believe me, when I assure you that I am not prompted by 
a desire to widen the breach between the Southern, 
Northern, Eastern or Western youth of our whole coun- 
try. I trust that time will cure the red wounds of civil 
war, and that forgiveness and charity may evoke from 
the bleeding heart of a nation’s woe sentiments of peace 
and brotherhood. May the avenger’s hand be raised to 
bless , and lips that now reek with curses breathe only 
words of brotherly love ! 

While my lips are pleading for peace, prosperity and 
gentle charity, my crushed heart bleeds, as gazing through 
my tears I see the great, black burden of my country’s 
mourning, and hear the sorrowful cry of a once mighty 
people over the grave of Liberty, wailing above the tomb 
of dead freedom. The circumstances which surround us 
as a people, call loudly upon the youth of the South to 
unfold the intellectual and moral powers which a wise and 
benevolent Creator has bestowed upon them, for grand 
and glorious purposes, and to develop the resources of 
their desolate country ; that through all future time the 
South may unfold her grandest powers, physical, intel- 
lectual and moral, and thus be enabled to take her stand 
amid the nations of the earth, with all her powers per- 
fected, for the good of man, and the praise and glory of 
the Judge of all the earth. 

God has bequeathed to the youth of the South a glorious 
heritage, and a glorious destiny. The warp and woof of 
the tangled web is in your hands. To you the aged 
vision turns beseechingly, lovingly and tenderly, as the 
anxious gaze of the old Patriarch rested upon his only 
and blessed Isaac, the Son of Promise — a nation’s hope. 
Upon you rest the eyes of surrounding nations ; with you 


of Egbert haywood osborne. 


43 


rests the question, shall we, as a people, as a country, 
“ sink or swim, survive or perish, live or die? ” 

In view of your powers, and the fearful responsibilities 
which rest upon you, as the future guardians of Southern 
honor, I have selected as a theme — “ The Mission of the 
Young Men of the South, in view of the Future of their 
Country.” 

Some of the grandest and holiest memories, some of 
the loftiest and proudest deeds, that glow amid a nation’s 
archives, and flash out like burning suns, on “ old his- 
toric rolls,” are yours. Though our homes are burned, 
our roof-trees desolated, our altars baptized with tears and 
wreathed with cypress, and we sit amid the ruins of a once 
proud and prosperous country, and weep for our slain, as 
the exiled Israel by the waters of Babylon — yet, amid all 
this ghostly woe, the gibing spectres of our perished glory, 
one thought rises like a fire-crowned mountain to light the 
charred ruins with something like an Eden glory. 

“You dared do all that men could do, 

And he who daretli more is none! 

The old red fields of Roman and Grecian valor, the dread 
pass of Thermopylae, and the corpse-piled bosom of battle 
plains where Spartan courage died, pale before the death- 
less splendors of heroism flashing from the bloody waves 
of the immortal Potomac to the dancing stream of the 
Rio Grande. Your defeat brought desolation and sorrow, 
weeping and mourning, woe and penury; yet, blessed be 
the God of Heaven, it did not bring — dishonor l Even 
from the lips of a generous foe, you won the meed of 
immortality of which a conquering hero might well feel 
proud. The lightning scarred summits of the world’s 
meanest infamy hold the record of no name more infa- 
mously shameless than that which would withhold this 
poor tribute of respect, this boon of justice, from our liv- 
ing warriors and our hero dead. 

O 


44 


LIFE, LECTURES AND POETRY 


The tempest of civil war, the flash of steel, the peal of 
musketry, the roar of artillery, the groans of the dying, 
the shout of victory, the tears and blood, the smoke and 
dust of battle — the dread misere of war, have passed 
away, and upon the slowly receding cloud rests the rain- 
bow of promise — the rising star of hope. The angel of 
peace sits in beauty, amid the carnage of battle, the ruins 
of war, and whispers loving words of cheer, and points 
with the prophetic finger of hope to the far-off future. 
The genial spirit of forgiveness lingers lovingly in brave 
and generous hearts, and stretches out the hand of brother- 
hood. Across the gulf of blood that heaves its red waves 
between dismembered sections, flashes the shining rail- 
way of charity, and commerce sends her words of peace 
and treasures of wealth from the green valleys of the 
South to the rock-ribbed sierras of New England. The 
Puritan and the Cavalier meet on hard fought battle fields 
and talk of Southern valor and Northern courage. The 
unextinguished affluence of our generous soil laughs be- 
neath the shining plow-share of industry, and shakes her 
golden treasures in the lap of honest toil. Men who bat- 
tled so bravely and endured so grandly can never perish 
amid the exiled darkness of oblivion. The immortality 
which wreathes forever and forever the names of our glo- 
rious dead, shines round the troubled battle of the pres- 
ent life and nerves the soul with mightier vigor, plumes 
the wings for a grander flight toward the unfolding glo- 
ries of our country’s future. Looking out of the black- 
ness and darkness of the present to the far future of our 
native land, the soul chants its fearless diapason. 

“ In the world’s broad field of battle, 

In the bivouac of life, 

Be not like dumb driven cattle, 

Be a hero in the strife.” 

The homage of gratitude is the only tribute we can pay 


OF EGBERT HAYWOOD OSBORNE. 


45 


to the memory of our dead warriors. Our battle banners 
are folded — we sitlike Marius amid the ruins of Carthage, 
mourning over the tomb where sleep the dearest hopes 
that ever robed the soul in glory’s garb of power. We 
echo here the language of some warm, generous Southern 
heart whose name, did we know it, we would chronicle 
before you: “Southern nationality is a dream of the 
past. A gulf, beyond which we could not pass, yawned 
between us and the realization of our hopes; and though 
bright flowers bloomed upon its bank, and wafted their 
sweet perfume, we could not cross to gather them. The 
Southern Cross no longer gleams out amid the wild light 
of battle; the sword of the vanquished is sheathed, and 
the land is gloomy with the harmless sepulchres of our 
martyred dead. But when years upon years shall have 
passed away; when the last of the present generation 
sleep with their fathers, and new forms throng the old 
familiar places ; when faction shall have hushed, and jus- 
tice holds the scales, then, as bright as day and as free 
from blemish and stain, will stand forth in bright relief 
upon the scroll of historic fame, the record of the South, 
dearer to the hearts of her children, now in the hour of 
sorrow, than when, on the march to victory, she won the 
admiration of the world. Pilgrims from other lands shall 
tread, with reverend step, above the spot where moulders 
the dust of our loved and lost ; while those who are to 
follow us will cherish as household gods the names of 
those who, carving a way through the fiery path of war, 
have written their names where they can never die; the 
principle for which so many laid down their lives may not 
be recognized until their names have grown feeble on the 
tongue of friendship, and been dropped like dead silence 
from the ear of the world. But it will struggle back 
from the hollow bosom that once bled for it, and ascend 
the heights of government. And when the faithful his- 
torian shall descend into the vaults of the dead past in 


46 


LIFE, LECTURES AND POETRY 


quest of traditions of liberty, he will then discover to 
whom the world is indebted for their perpetuation. ” 

To perpetuate the memory of the noble dead is surely 
no crime in the eyes of the brave and generous foeman 
who subdued our grand aspirings, and shattered our house- 
hold gods. It is not treason against — “ the best govern- 
ment in the world ” to weep over the wide wastings of 
woe and ruin which are piled in broken monuments of 
sorrow about our desolate hearthstones. Hell could 
invent no cruelty so terrible as to compel us to hush the 
wail of our sorrowful hearts and swallow the draught of 
our own burning tears. Our battle paeans are hushed. 
Our bloody flags are folded. Our hearts are in the graves 
where sleep our buried idols. We will urn their mem- 
ories in the golden chancel of gratitude, and as we mourn- 
fully tread the darkened aisles of the future, we will 
cheer our hearts with the history of their mighty deeds 
of heroic courage. 

In every age of the world pure patriotism and lofty 
courage have been historic synonyms. The battle pictures 
of the dead past have been rescued from the Lethean 
waves of oblivion by the harp of classic song and story. 
We need not turn to the shaded paths and moss-grown 
cenotaphs of Grecian and Roman valor to find the shining 
thoroughfare where princely warriors crowned the world 
with the immortality of their deeds. We need not search 
the storied archives of Spartan valor for names “ forever 
wedded to immortality. ” We need not pore over the 
sunlit records of genius reared by Homer, Virgil and 
Caesar, to consecrate the majesty of heroism. The bloody 
annals of the world’s warfare gleam with no grander 
names, no deeds of sublimer heroism, than those immortal 
chieftains of the Lost Cause , who sacrificed their lives 
upon the shrine of patriotism. 

A spirit of brave endurance and boundless self-sacrifice, 
a matchless love of justice, and a deathless scorn for 


OF EGBERT HAYWOOD OSBORNE. 


47 


wrong, and a holy love of country filled their generous 
hearts and warmed their gallant spirits, and nerved their 
arms to deeds of daring that will survive as long as 
patriotism has a friend, or virtue a champion, or heroism 
an admirer ; deeds that will outlive the pitiless gibes and 
vulgar jests of meanness and remorseless hate. Heart- 
less vengeance would heap indignant scorn upon their 
glorious names, and the demon of malice would follow 
them to the grave and bequeath the dead ashes of our 
sons to the ages of infamy and shame. Not a solitary 
name should live in song or story ; not a star glitter on the 
bloody folds of our fallen banners. Power cannot rob us 
of the heritage of memory and affection. We would not 
rekindle the battle fires of avenging hate along the black- 
ened paths of our sorrowing land. We would not meanly 
wrong a northern foe or a southern traitor, but to life’s 
last sad hour we will honor the memory of the Confeder- 
ate dead , and stretch out the hand of brotherhood to the 
living warriors of the Lost Cause. 

Upon the bloody record of suffering and sorrow which 
crowns the immortal history of the past, the angel of his- 
tory hath written hero names that will go “ sounding 
down through ages,” and unborn ages will pay the boon 
of love, the “ tribute of a tear ” to our holy dead. The 
Cliosophic muse will guard their dust and drive back the 
Lethean billows from their honored graves ; poetry will 
consecratetheir courage in the loftiest strains of epic song ; 
painting will shrine their names upon the sunlit canvas of 
immortality ; sculpture will make the deathless marble 
herald the grand evangelum of their fame; and far off 
ages will catch the splendor of their deeds and roll them 
around the civilized world to “the last syllable of re- 
corded time.” Memory turns her brim-full eye to the 
sorrows and humiliations of our beloved land — her bloody 
past unequaled by her present woe ; one spot remains be- 
yond the touch of malice and hate ; one spot over which 


48 


LIFE, LECTURES AND POETRY 


shines the morning star of peace, rest and hope — the 
graves where rest our hero dead. Though no monumen- 
tal shaft, no marble urn, may mark the spot where now 
they gently sleep, their deeds will abide with us, a sainted 
glory, forever and forevermore. Embalmed in a nation’s 
tears ; shrined in a nation’s grateful heart ; beyond the 
tide-mark of oblivion, we will guard their fame, cherish 
their memories and engrave their names deep down in 
our sorrowful hearts. 

May the hand of affection plant the evergreen of immor- 
tality amid the ashes of our loved and lost ! When Al- 
mighty Mercy calls the roll of the redeemed, may the 
heroes of the Lost Cause answer ! Amid the harmonies 
of Heaven’s peace may they change their battle shouts to 
the song of “ Moses and the Lamb.” Out of the battle 
trenches where our dead warriors are sleeping, we seem 
to hear sounding a glorious prophecy: — 

“ Furl that banner — true ’tis gory, 

Yet, ’tis wreathed around with glory, 

And ’twill live in song and story. 

Though its folds are in the dust ; 

For its fame on brightest pages, 

Sung by poets and by sages, 

Shall go sounding down through ages , 

Furl that flag though now we must.” 

Is there no bow of promise arching the storm? no 
“ silver lining to the cloud ” that lowers over 11s, as a 
people? To the young men of the South is bequeathed 
the high, grand duty, the holy trust, of removing the 
ruins piled about us — clearing away the charred rubbish, 
gathering up the fragments, and out of our desolations 
to remold a temple of human liberty whose head-stone 
shall be brought forth with shoutings, crying “ Grace! 
grace ! unto it.” The grand battle of liberty has yet to 
be fought — not with swords and staves and armed men ; 
not amid the bloody shock of embattled legiops, mar- 


OF EGBERT HAYWOOD OSBORNE. 


49 


shaled armies and floating navies; not amid the howling 
thunders of bloody revolutions, but with the grander and 
holier weapons of truth. Truth and error must meet 
upon the wide and shining fields of fair discussion, and 
there forever settle the vexed questions which now mad- 
den the popular brain. The Church, the School House 
and the Press — these are the palladiums of Liberty — 
these thearmies and navies that mustdobattle fortheright, 
crush down the wrong, and wake in every bounding soul 
the reverberating aspiration for justice, truth and mercy, 
law, order and true government. These must clear the ship 
for action and guide her proudly and sublimely on ward amid 
the stranded factions of the world. Let your words be 
shafts of fire, your thoughts columns of flame, to burn 
down into the chaos and torpidity of the millions who 
are sleeping careless and prayerless over the tomb of 
liberty. Open the blind eyes that they may see the shad- 
ows gathering darkly around their homes. Wake up the 
dead that they may hear the clanking of their chains. 
Stir the slumbering hearts that they may feel the plead- 
ing wants of humanity. Even now the mighty conflict is 
throbbing around you like thunder in the clouds of 
heaven. Educated, purified in the furnace of trial, vest- 
ured with the majesty of truth, go out a “ fire armed 
angel” to rebuild the vestal altars of liberty in our 
lonely land. 

Let each young man ask himself the question — what 
is my dutyJ Answering that aright you will know your 
mission, and be prepared to write your names where the 
stars glitter and the angels sing. Permit one who loves 
you, and the Lost Cause, for which you periled all, and 
lost all, save self-respect and honor, to aid you in solv- 
ing the solemn question — what is duty? — what is my 
mission? Man’s mission arises from his intellectual and 
moral powers, and the God-given responsibility which 
rests upon him. Man is endogenous and needs unfolding. 

4 


50 


LIFE, LECTURES AND POETRY 


Intellectual power is that fearful and sublime gift of om- 
nipotent goodness which elevates and ennobles man above 
all the glories of the earth, and allies the vast brotherhood 
of humanity to angel intelligences, in wisdom, in worship 
and in praise. Immortality is the fruitage of intellectual 
power. God hath graven with a sunbeam upon the 
“ dome of thought, the palace of the soul ” — thou canst 
never die! Knowledge is the natural aliment of mind. 
“ Knowledge is power.’ ’ “ Ye shall be as Gods, know- 

ing good and evil , was the sublimest offering which 
Satan could make to Eve. Before this grand tempta- 
tion she fell. It was the longing of the soul to measure 
thought with God. One drop from the Pierian Spring 
sets the soul on fire, and it yearns to feast on Angels’ 
food. Like Homer’s giant, quaffing from the goblet of 
Ulvsses, he cries forever “ Give, give me more ! ” True 
education is the unfolding of all the vast resources with 
which God crowned the race of Adam. It is the devel- 
opment of every power. The mountain marble must be 
touched by the hand of genius ere it blushes before you the 
semblance of breathing life. The iron horse is useless un- 
til harnessed by steam and guided for the journey. The 
gorgeous palace, with the pomp and pageantry of wealth, 
is but a splendid tomb, where dead silence wanders when 
the princely owner is away. A harp of pearls and golden 
beauty gives no music if its cords be shattered, or the 
hand unskillful. An empty pitcher makes no eye gleam, 
and cools no parched lip. We find no bright fountains 
playing — no oasis gleaming amid the ruins of an uncul- 
tured mind. Truth must be wooed ; long and wearily 
must man kneel and worship at her vestal shrine, and 
warm the soul by her glowing fires, ere she becomes the 
spirit’s bright enchantress, and with all her endless bliss 
and blessing nestles forever in the shining temple of the 
mind, sending out her beacon fires and kindling her drum- 
mond lights, to brighten the gloom of earth. Man being 


OF EGBERT HAYWOOD OSBORNE. 


51 


immortal and accountable, owing fealty to God and duties 
to society, has resting upon him an obligation to edu- 
cate his intellect, from which nothing can relieve him. 
Ignorance, dwarfing his powers, renders him powerless 
to accomplish, to do and dare, and thus he fails in a 
great measure to fulfill his mission upon earth, to bless 
and brighten the race of men around him. The facilities 
for receiving a superior education, in our day, are most 
extensive. This proud privilege at least is left us, amid 
the wreck of glorious hopes. It does not require a for- 
tune to unbar the portals of learning, and unroll the 
wisdom of ages to the entranced and delighted gaze 
of our aspiring youth. Ambition’s highest dream may 
be more than realized, and the beckonings of fame fol- 
lowed to the loftiest summit of earth’s renown, by 
every brave-hearted youth in the broad land of our 
birth. What though his coffers are empty, his head, 
heart and hands are not, and time, faith and energy 
laugh at the glittering aggrandizements of pompous 
wealth and the galling serfdom of poverty, as foreign 
elements in the soul’s grand strivings after knowledge, 
and it journeys upward to the shining climax of its high 
endeavor, rejoicing in the might with which God crowned 
it. Here the gates of Wisdom, like the gates of Heaven, 
stand open night and day, and the sons of Science and 
Song keep watch and ward by the fire-crowned altars of 
truth. The humblest and the proudest may wander un- 
molested, girt by angel watchers and guarded by grand 
thoughts, amid the garlanded temples of knowledge, the 
shining aisles of reason; kneel by its holy shrines, and 
sit reverently down, encompassed by its glorious coun- 
sels and hallowed songs. Educate the intellect, pour into 
its fathomless depths, and far over its oceanic bounds, 
the magic power of energy, the golden affluence of hope, 
the inexhaustible wealth of wisdom, love and power, and 
go on and up, toiling, conquering, rejoicing, until your 


52 


LIFE, LECTURES AND POETRY 


glad Eureka startles the hierophants of political faction, 
and makes the thrones of despotism tremble with the 
aroused thunders of educated thought. The cohorts of 
fanaticism, whoever they may be, or wherever they may 
dwell, cannot stand before the concentrated grandeur and 
power of truth. The ignorant mind wears its galling 
chains as humbly as the craven spaniel wears his brazen 
collar. The truly educated intellect will cut away the 
tyrant’s chains, and bounding into the grand tournament, 
like some mailed angel on a battle day, shout the rally 
round the world, and make humanity’s pulses bound to 
the music of victory. There is much circumstantial 
greatness in the world. Men have been weak enough to 
build up their pretentious claims to merit upon the drifting 
and unsubstantial shadows of ancestral dignity and worth. 
If our ancestors were wise, and learned, and worthy, 
and rich it should be a source of satisfaction to us. But 
when the grave closes over them, and the memory 
of their great and good deeds alone is left us, we should 
refuse to congratulate ourselves upon these buried treas- 
ures, depending upon them for position, or resting upon 
the hard-earned laurels of departed worth, to win for us 
titles of goodness and greatness. Goodness and greatness 
are individualities, and while we should rejoice that no stain 
rests upon our family escutcheon, we should enter upon 
the labors of life with a self-reliant spirit, and with our 
own hand and brain plan and execute, till and toil, sow 
and reap. Should success crown our efforts what a 
blessed feeling of independence would thrill us with glad- 
ness. Or, should life’s freighted barque founder in the 
storm, how sweet would be the farewell echo of the dying 
thought: I sink alone — none are buried with me in the 
wreck. You must rely upon yourself. We rejoice that 
out of the blackness and desolation which have ' fallen 
upon the extinguished hopes of the Southern people, 
something good will avail — some new hope shine out of 


btf EGBERT HAY WOOD OSBORNE. §3 

the cloud. Our youug men were relying too much upon 
the achievements of parental power to guide their barque 
amid the stormy waves of trial. They did not feel so 
deeply as now the necessity of personal effort, the majesty 
and might of individuality . Standing as they now do, 
surrounded by the wreck of princely fortune, with noth- 
ing upon which to lean for strength, save their own per- 
sonal effort, their own merit, knowing that their own 
strong arms must propel the freighted barque which bears 
the hopes of manhood and the rest of weary age, our 
youth are bravely meeting the sad reverses of fortune, 
and battling to rear up for themselves a monument of 
fame. They are shielding their gray-haired fathers and 
mothers from the frozen horrors of a poor old age. 
Their love and tenderness is brightening the ebbing tides 
of life. Their industry and energy is surrounding the 
loved ones with comfort, hope and joy. A professional 
life is losing much of its old distinction, and our young 
men are beginning to survey the wide and honorable fields 
of usefulness which surround them. The grand desider- 
atum now is seen in the absolute necessity of that work 
which will yield immediate recompense. The genius of 
mechanism, so long neglected by many, in the false and 
foolish hope that law, medicine, and mercantile life, would 
crown them with success and respectability, is at last oc- 
cupying the time and engaging the minds of many of our 
Southern youths. The mechanical and manufacturing 
interests of our country, under the auspices of the pres- 
ent hour, will revive and remunerate the hand of honest 
and masterly industry with the golden reward of plenty. 
Educational institutions, looking to the future of our 
country and the permanent usefulness of our people, are 
springing up like magic, on every hill and in every valley 
of our sorrowing yet hopeful land. The subject of edu- 
cation is absorbing the minds of thousands and millions 
of the rising generation. Many a young man and young 


54 LIFE, LECTURES AND POETRY 

woman, in the proud old days of our golden prosperity 
(a prosperity for which we were never sufficiently thank- 
ful), looked into the shrouded future, with the eye of 
hope, and no dream of self-reliance disturbed the peace- 
ful serenity of their self-complacency. Now they lean 
no more on human help ; they depend no longer on 
father’s wealth; they rest no more beneath the black 
shadows of Africanism ; they feel that there is a neces- 
sity resting upon them to put forth the long slumbering 
powers of thought. Arm and brain and heart, are 
bravely encountering the “ ills which flesh is heir to,” 
and the grand thought, “ I must depend upon myself,” 
energizes every latent power, and summons into bound- 
ing and vigorous life every energy of soul and body. 
This war has dissolved the mists of circumstantial and 
fortuitous greatness. Men do not ask the old question 
now, which shamed our manhood — “ is he rich, is she 
rich,” but that other, and higher, and truer, and grander 
question, is he “ honorable, industrious and energetic,” 
“ is he a true, grand man, or a fashionable butterfly — 
a brainless fop?” Out of this spirit of self-reliance, 
this grand individuality of manhood, this necessity of 
personal responsibility, will be born many a grand deed; 
many a sleeping giant will be roused; many a noble 
genius plume his tireless wing and sweep the paths where 
“ angels fear to tread.” We trust in God I The Lord 
reigns ! The moonless night of a nation’s woe and a 
nation’s extremity, may be the auspicious moment, the 
providential opportunity for purifying our people from 
the old dross of indolent ease and luxurious idleness, 
and calling into a higher, purer life, the grandest powers 
of our people. Let us labor to evoke good from evil, 
hope from despondency, joy from sorrow, and light from 
the gloom which now surrounds us. 

To enter the tournament of life, a plumed and vizored 
warrior, unknowing and unknown, throw down the 


OF EGBERT HAYWOOD OSBORNE. 


55 


gauntlet at the feet of the proud Templars in battle, to 
hear the shout of multitudes, and bear off the victor’s 
prize — no name of glory gilding the somber shadows of 
life — no proud heraldry or lofty titles from old ancestral 
rolls brighten the rugged path — no golden-lipped Croesus 
to bid the gloom of obscurity back and let you pass on 
to Juras’ billowy heights of fame alone, alone in the 
majesty of your own manhood. Cheered by the name- 
less impulse of a silent strength you swept Titans from 
your path, planted your standard, threw out the folds of 
your banner and shouted to the surging multitudes be- 
low: “ Veni! Vidi! Vicil ” When you urned in your 
intellects vast truths from the fields of classic stories 
and crowded the pantheon of the mind with the many 
Gods of earth — when you sit like a throned Monarch, 
with rich worlds lying at your feet, when you have stood 
upon the Alps, stood upon the Appenines, held converse 
with, the thunder, and sported with the lightning, kept 
midnight vigil with the stars, and fathomed all depths 
and explored all bounds, there is one altar at which you 
must kneel, one shrine at which you must worship — the 
Cross on Calvary — the tomb of Joseph. The mightiest 
intellects of earth, Philosophers, Statesmen, Heroes, 
Poets and Scholars, have humbly laid their treasured 
wisdom and exalted fame at the feet of a Divine Christ 
and felt uplifted and purified by the immeasurable hopes 
of a grander development of their powers in the wor- 
ship of God. Man is a moral being — “a religious 
animal.” He will love something — he will worship 
something. The moral tendencies and outgoing influ- 
ences of his life, for weal or woe, good or evil, blessing 
or cursing, will surely take their coloring from the char- 
acter of the object worshiped. Close your ears to the 
siren song of religious skepticism, shut up the portal of 
brain and heart against the bewildering seductions of 
infidelity. False to the God who made you, you will be 


56 


LIFE, LECTURES AND POETRt 


false to yourself, false to society, false to your mission. 
Never forget it, oh ! never forget it, faith in God is the 
grand starting point in life, the high true source from 
whence flows the healing waters of life, strength for the 
fulfillment of your truest mission. If you madly attempt 
to cut yourself loose from the moorings of Omnipotence, 
you must drift to ruin, and all the proud, bright hopes 
which cluster around you as the future guardians of 
Southern honor and prosperity must go out in darkness 
and in guilt. The Poet, the Prince, the Prophet, the 
Warrior of Israel, whose wonderous Psalms have en- 
tranced the hearts of the living and the dead, hath 
written it in words which burn like a flame — “ The fool 
hath said in his heart there is no God.” He feared to 
breathe it aloud , lest the roused thunders of indignant 
Nature, the fiery lightnings of the insulted storms might 
hear the utterance of his beastly folly and scourge him into 
hell. “ In his heart,” the unuttered libel, crouched like 
a fiery fiend. His lips refused to whisper it lest every 
wind and wave, every bud and blossom, every fragrant 
flower and every shining star, every blade of grass and 
every leaf in the forest — everything, animate and inani- 
mate, upon earth and in Heaven would rise up and exe- 
crate such a monstrous libel upon reason, nature and 
Divinity. The unfeeling heart of Infidelity, pulseless and 
barren of gentle sensibility, cold and unimpressive as the 
snow-crowned summits of frozen mountains — dead to 
the pleading wants of the immortal soul — would extin- 
guish the lights kindled by our holy and beautiful religion, 
crush the sublime aspirings of the heart, shadow the 
death room with the ghastly visions of annihiliation, and 
bury the Cross , the Savior, the soul, God and man in one 
bleak and barren grave. He hearkens to the majestic 
symphonies of nature, the grand orchestra of earth and 
heaven, singing winds and dancing waves, and shouting 
stars, and rejoicing storms, and hears in their glorious 


OF Egbert hay wood osborne. 


St 


witnesses no voice of design, no breatbing of power or 
love. Nature’s arguments should shame into silence the 
idiot cavilings and muttered blasphemies of Infidelity. 
The soul pleads for diviner heights than earth can offer, 
more endearing hopes than are embosomed in the soph- 
istries of earthly philosophy. The inner eye would be 
greeted with visions from heavenly worlds — it grows 
dim with tears gazing upon the broken joys of the life 
that now is, and yearns to lose its sorrows amid the 
shouting immortalities of a nobler and more expanded 
state of existence. Christianity offers to fill up the vast 
void of the soul with enduring joys and undying hopes, 
anchoring our manhood purified and exalted to the 
thrones of Eternity. Blot the Bible from the world — 
extinguish the last record of unearthly testimony from 
the shrines of earth, the hearts of men — let skepticism 
triumph — let infidelity build its thrones upon the ruins 
of every church and pulpit on the whole earth — hush 
the songs of Zion, close the lips of prayer and the 
voice of the watchman, write the epitaph of annihila- 
tion, blot from the soul every hope of Heaven, drive 
from the heart every fear of future punishment — then 
go and raze to their foundations every temple of justice 
in the land, make a bonfire of every law book in the 
world, break down the barriers between virtue and vice, 
sanctify adultery, consecrate falsehood and murder, spit 
upon charity and laugh at human woe, for he who would 
scoff at God, sneer at religion, and jest at the shadows of the 
new-made grave would gibe at the sorrows of poor human- 
ity. France tried this dread experiment and its history is 
four brief words: “ The Reign of Terror” The lessons 
of French Infidelity are written in characters of blood, 
tears, groans and terror. Oh ! never forget it, youth of 
my country — never forget it I “ Righteousness exalteth a 
nation , hut sin is a reproach to any people .” Will you 
surrender the proud hopes of manhood, mar all your 


58 


LIFE, LECTURES AND POETRY 


prospects, blight all your hopes, and render yourselves 
powerless for the sublime mission which lies before you 
by dishonoring God and humanity in the acceptance of 
so foul a scheme of folly, such blasphemous sophistry, 
as the bewildered skeptic offers to his deluded votaries? 
No ! no ! a mother’s love, a mother’s prayers will save 
you from such a doom. It matters not how splendid 
your genius, how vast and varied your attainments, if 
you neglect the culture of your moral powers you can 
accomplish no enduring good. Permit me to illustrate 
this truism, to ambrotype before you a true picture of a 
true man, who cultivated his intellect and neglected his 
morals by embracing the follies of skepticism — who 
lived to read the sad lessons of his folly in the dim shad- 
ows of blighted hopes and the lonely sorrows of a 
blasted life; lived to realize in the woes and agonies of 
outraged conscience that towering genius, profound and 
vast learning, did not compensate for the barren wastes 
of a desolate, uncultured heart. Perhaps no man ever 
lived whose name and memory are so deeply and bitterly 
scorned, one whose deeds have been so brilliant, so far 
removed from the mindless paths of mediocrity, as the 
gifted and unfortunate Aaron Burr — certainly, one of 
the most wonderful men of his age, or of any age; pos- 
sessing an antagonism, a mental and moral idiosyncrasy 
which defied all metaphysics, all phrenology, and all the 
established landmarks of ethics or philosophy to solve. 
There was no calculus by which to solve the mysterious 
problem of his character. He was a mystery to all 
about him, and to this late day remains a beast, a demigod, 
a mythical impersonality — yet fearfully real in all he 
did. 

Small in stature, graceful as the willow on the banks 
of the Shannon, nervous in temperament, capable of 
endless endurance and exhaustless resources ; quick in 
his movements, lithe as the antelope, tireless as the lion 


OF Egbert haywood osborne. 


59 


of the desert; braver than Caesar, more courteous than 
Chesterfield, reckless in his generosity, with a wit bright 
polished and deadly as a Damascus blade; profoundly 
axiomatic in his powers of oratory, scorning all beautiful 
peroration, useless exordium or ornate portraitures — at 
a single giant bound he cleared all barriers, and, standing 
in the central heart of the great theme, he fathomed its 
depths, measured its altitudes, and swept the farthest 
bounds of its circumference, laid it wide open before the 
gaze of his rapt and spell-bound auditory. None need 
follow in his wake in search of some new thought. Desti- 
tute of great wealth, with little circumstantial prestige, 
possessed of a gigantic mind, thoroughly educated and 
trained for the tournament, he bounded into the arena 
of legal and political strife, like an archangel fallen, a 
plumed warrior mailed to the brow, with helmet, shield 
and lance, he stood a Titan, throned above Titans. An 
eagle of the sun, he folded the pinions of his proud 
genius, “and stooped to touch the loftiest thought.” 
Official power, vast wealth, political trickery, family 
combinations, relentless persecutions — in a word, all 
that men could do, prompted by envy, hate, pride, am- 
bition and malice — wa3 done to crush “ Little Burr,” 
as his enemies spitefully called him. 

He penetrated their partisan intrigues, broke down 
their combinations, tore into infinitesimal shreds the cords 
they had woven to strangle him, and proudly took his 
stand hard by the throne of executive power, second to 
none but Jefferson in civic honors — his equal, if not his 
superior, in mental greatness. 

Why was it that one so wonderfully, so fearfully gifted 
by nature’s lavish hand, with such sublime natural en- 
dowments, and possessed of such vast and varied attain- 
ments, passed away from the world “ unwept, unhonored 
and unsung? ” Why has he fallen so low that there are 
“ none so poor to do him reverence? ” His moral char- 


60 LtFE, LECTURES AND 

acter was perverted , the fountain was poisoned , the 
streams were bitter. His was an age of chivalry, gal- 
lantry and infidelity — there had been a fearful rebound 
from the bigotry and prudery of Alpine Puritanism to 
the opposite of French Reason . 

Aaron Burr’s religious sentiments were drawn from 
the gorgeous pages of Volney, his ethics from the siren 
witchery of Godwin, and his ideas of social intercourse 
from the vapid sentimentality of Chesterfield. The re- 
sult was inevitable. He had sown to the wind. We see 
the fruitage and gaze with sorrow on the wreck. What 
a harvest of scorn and loathing, unmixed with tears of 
sympathy or words of commendation ! Even his better 
deeds are forgotten and lost in the hoarse thunders of 
universal execration, while thousands infinitely below 
him rejoice at his fall from amid the piled thunders and 
pavilioned clouds, where he sat enthroned like Lucifer — 
grand even in his ruins. Thousands of bats are gibing at 
the broken wings of the fallen eagle ! “ Tray, Blanch and 

Sweetheart” are howling over his perished wreathes — 
a single leaf of whose chaplet would dazzle them with his 
glory and crush them with its weight of splendor. 

The death of Alexander Hamilton was the event which 
doomed to death the brilliant prospects of Aaron Burr, 
and gloomed his future to the grave. 

Gates, DeWitt Clinton, Randolph, Benton, Jackson, 
Decatur, Arnold, Walpole, Pitt, Wellington, Canning, 
Peel, Grattan, Fox, Sheridan, Jeffrey, Wilkes, Disraeli, 
Lamartine, Thiers, and many others known to fame, have 
set the example of dueling, and made it honorable in 
the eyes of the world by their great names. We need 
not here speak of the causes which led to that most un- 
fortunate duel between Burr and Hamilton. Unfortunate 
in that it robbed the nation of one of its brightest orna- 
ments, widowed and blighted the hearts of many, and 
gloomed the life of a glorious being with the blackness 


OF EGBERT HAYWOOD OSBORNE. 


61 


of desolation and remorse. Unfortunate, in that two 
beings so conspicuous for genius and learning, “ the ob- 
served of all observers,” should lend the majesty of 
• their great names to sanctify the cowardly relics of 
barbarian folly. Yet, we know, the spirit of the age, 
the force of a corrupt popular opinion, would have 
branded Burr as a cowardly poltroon, had he failed to 
have summoned his political foe to the field of honor, 
the banquet spot of death, over which fell a nation’s 
tears. Public sentiment consecrated the pernicious cus- 
tom of dueling, and yet rained out its tears and howled 
its execrations like mad thunder when their favorites 
battled and their jewel lay a gory wreck before them. 
The march of Christianity and its peaceful triumphs are 
slowly driving the abominable practice from civilized so- 
ciety, and the time will come when it will be mentioned 
amid the legendary stories of the past. 

So it was — the funeral wail of Hamilton shocked the 
refinement of the day and roused into something like in- 
dignant life the slumbering senses of public opinion — 
exiled Burr from his country, scourged him with a whip 
of scorpions from Kichmond Hill, drove him, a blighted 
wanderer, from all he held dear. Even England, soaked 
in blood and putrid with moral infamy, rampant with 
murders and rife with death, turned whining Puritan, and 
informed the hunted exile, “the wounded hart” who 
sought a shaded spot upon her freedom-loving shores, 
that his presence was embarrassing to the British govern- 
ment. And France, whose murdered skeletons and bloody 
guillotines crowded her hills and valleys — France, the 
land of elegant and refined seraglios, brilliant and gay 
Lotharios — held the expatriated wanderer under the 
espionage and surveillance of her Parisian police. 
Shunned as a penniless mendicant, friendless and home- 
less, almost blinded by the slow-coming horrors of a poor 
old age, we see his indomitable temper and mental elas- 


62 


LIFE, LECTURES AND POETRY 


ticity rising above the shadows which girt and gloomed 
his way, and hear him quaintly and quietly saying: 4 4 I 
have left, in cash, two half-pence, which is much better 
than one penny, because they jingle , and one may re- 
fresh one’s self with the music.” The death of his 
grandson was the first barbed arrow that remained rank- 
ling in his bosom, followed by the fearful mystery which 
palled the doom of his gifted, accomplished daughter, Mrs. 
Alston, of South Carolina, said to have been the loveliest 
woman of her day. He pressed his hand tightly across 
his heaving heart to still its volcanic throes, and felt the 
life-hope go out from his soul forever. He was alone — 
penniless, homeless, friendless. He died with a beauti- 
ful tribute to the sublime pre-eminence of the Booh , 
whose teachings he had scorned. Some unknown hand 
stealthily placed a marble slab over his buried ashes — 
stealthily , lest, perchance, the indignation of an outraged 
public sentiment should consign the simple gift and the 
generous giver to the doom of infamy. Oh ! had he ful- 
filled the high dreams of a father’s hopes and a mother’s 
love, opened the portals of his great heart to the many 
lights of peace and blessing kindled on Calvary, who 
could now tell the grand measure of his usefulness, the 
beautiful glory of his grand life ! 

While we greatly admire the genius of Burr, we lament 
the moral prostitution of such vast capabilities, and 
mourn over the ruins of so grand a temple. We cannot 
commend his example. It is exceedingly difficult to im- 
itate the greatness of such men as Burr, Byron, Shellev, 
Sheridan, Prentiss or Edgar A. Poe, without almost 
imperceptibly aping some of their moral heresies and 
frailties. Their names and memories, with all their sad 
and lonely surroundings, should shine as beacon lights 
upon the far off head-lands of the past ; and while we 
may|be lost in admiration for the gifted of earth, let us 
strive to avoid the wild and temptest-beaten reef on 


OF EGBERT HAYWOOD OSBORNE. 


63 


which their full-freighted barques went down, darkened 
by such lone and bitter memories. “ Man should dare 
do all things that he knows is right, and fear to do no 
act save what is wrong.” Baily says, most truly, “ good 
only is great, generous and faithful.” 

In the heart-words of Tennyson : — 

“ How e’er it be, it seems to me, 

’Tis only noble to be good; 

Kind hearts are more than coronets, 

And simple Faith than Norman blood.” 

Old Flavel said most truly, long ago: “ Knowledge in 
the head, without grace in the heart, often proves a curse 
instead of a blessing.” Vast intellectual endowments 
and utter moral prostitution will unfit you for your mis- 
sion of usefulness. Fatal, overwhelming ruin must be 
the result of moral neglect. The character of a nation 
depends upon the character of the people. We need not 
pause to prove a fact so patent, and to the simple truth 
of which all history, experience and observation contrib- 
ute their united testimony. 

Well and truly did Sir William Jones paint the picture 
of a nation’s glory: — 

“ What constitutes a State? 

Not high-raised battlements or labored mound, 

Thick walls or moated gate ; 

Not cities high, with spire and turrets crowned, 

Not bays and broad-armed ports, 

Where laughing at the storm, rich navies ride. 

Not starred and spangled courts 
Where low-brow’d envy wafts perfume to pride, 

No \ men high-minded men, 

With powers as high above dull brutes endued, 

In forest, brake or den, 

As beasts excel cold rocks and brambles rude. 

Men who their duties know — 


64 


LIFE, LECTURES AND POETRY 


But know tlieir rights , and knowing dare maintain, 

Prevent the long aim’d blow, 

And crush the tyrant while they rend the chain — 

These constitute a State!” 

Permit one who most sincerely desires your interest 
and happiness, who would see you a blessing to your 
country, useful, beloved and happy — a joy to all about 
you, and a living glory amid the blackness which shrouds 
the future of our country — to warn you kindly and affec- 
tionately of the wreck-mantled reefs, the dread whirl- 
pools which threaten your ruin, and amid whose endless 
gloom and sorrow many a gallant sail has gone down, 
many a noble barque been wrecked. The future of the 
South depends upon the rising generation. The future 
well-being of the South depends upon the moral and in- 
tellectual vigor and power of the rising generation. 
These are truisms. Christianity, philanthropy and pat- 
riotism — every sentiment of humanity, imperatively 
demands of the human heart to weep over the wide wast- 
ing woes and horrors inflicted upon us as a people by the 
desolating influences of Intemperance. The devastations 
of this grand moral evil, blasting the bright prospects 
and stupefying the mightiest intellects of our sorrowful 
land, demand with increased and ever-increasing earnest- 
ness, that we should lift up our voices in tones of plead- 
ing love and holy wooing, warning the youth of our 
native land to beware of youthful dissipation. It is a 
magic stream ; steep but your lips in its sparkling waters 
and with a charmed spell upon your spirits you are 
swept down its fiery tide to ruin, a ruin as sure as death, 
as solemn as the judgment, as awful as hell. Passion, 
appetite, habit, these are the remorseless despots of the 
brain — they govern with more than the pitiless terror of 
a bloody tyrant. They laugh at tears, scoff at reason, 
scorn the wailings of remorse. They jest with character, 
sport with love, and laugh at tears. They sunder every 


OF EGBERT HAYWOOD OSBORNE. 65 

tie that binds to God and man. They till the gentlest 
heart with images from hell, and write upon the loftiest 
dome of genius the barren echoes of dreary idiocy. They 
rend the golden bonds of earth’s sweet fellowship and 
exile the heart from all that robes this world in Eden’s 
light. They blight and blast, corrupt, corrode and damn 
with pitiless vindictiveness and malicious hate. Oh, how 
the heart bleeds as gazing on the hopeless ruins this fiery 
fiend has wrought throughout the beautiful homes of our 
beautiful land. How many proud hopes stretching away 
into the golden tinted future ; how many lofty dreams 
of young ambition, whose sainted visions were hued with 
light from far shining stars ; how many holy loves of a 
lonely life have all, all, set in darkness, like shattered 
stars, no more to glad the longing vision of the anxious 
watcher ! 

Genius and learning are not proof against the siren 
witchery of youthful dissipation. Nor can boasted reason 
loose the galling chains when once bound about the rav- 
ing captive. A dread darkness covers him. A dreary 
apathy enshrouds his senses, and his God-like powers 
are dead to the appeals of reason, the pleadings of con- 
science, the cries of remorse, the tears of a mother, 
the pleadings of a wife, the wail of children, the thun- 
der of Almighty wrath — all move him not from the 
dread slumbers of the soul. Intemperance sears the con- 
science, hardens and corrupts the heart, depraves and 
degrades the mind, destroys the energies of the body, 
and thus forever unfits its poor, unhappy victim for the 
discharge of all the vast solemn duties which cluster around 
the soul of every human being. It is a melancholy truth 
that men endowed with the strongest minds, the most 
sportive and vivid fancy, the most sparkling and ready 
wit, have been immolated upon the shrine of this fell de- 
stroyer. 

Who has not heard of Sheridan, the cotemporary of 
5 


66 


LIFE, LECTURES AND POETRY 


Burke, Pitt, Fox and other illustrious men who at that 
time adorned the British Parliament? Who has read the 
impeachment of Warren Hastings and not been carried 
away by its fervid, impassioned eloquence? It seems 
distilled from the honeyed tongue of some soft siren. 
His wit was as bright and polished as the far-famed Da- 
mascus blade ; his classic taste as soft and beautiful as a 
summer’s twilight in the vale of Tetnpe; his genius as 
bright as the flames which burnt around the shrine of 
Vesta; like the column at Alexandria, he stood alone in 
classic dignity. In the language of England’s royal 
poet : — 

“Long may we seek his likeness, long in vain, 

And turn to all of him which may remain, 

Sighing that Nature formed but one such man, 

And broke the die in molding Sheridan. ” 

Nothing in all the wide range of thought seems half so 
fearful as a great mind in ruins! “ The navies of the 
world stranded upon a wild and rocky shore, where the 
lurid lightning reveals the fearfulness of the catastrophe, 
in floating wrecks and drowning wretches whose death 
shrieks rise above the roar of the tempest, would afford 
a spectacle of appalling grandeur. A great city in ruins — 
Lisbon in an earthquake, with her broken arches, and 
crumbling walls, and falling towers, and flying popula- 
tion, with thousands buried beneath the wreck of gorgeous 
homes — presents a scene over which the heart of hu- 
manity sickens. Moscow, at mid-winter, wrapped in an 
ocean of flame whose tossing billows swept the clouds, 
made even the stern heart of Napoleon tremble, and sent 
a paralysis of despair through all his veteran hosts ; but 
what are these to the irreparable ruin of one temple , whose 
builder is God — of one immortal mind, having eternity 
for its life-time and immensity for its home ! Approach 
the bier of that unequaled orator, S. S. Prentiss, or of 


OF EGBERT HAYWOOD OSBORNE. 


67 


that pleasing and melancholy poet, Edgar A. Poe, or the 
broken-hearted Lamb; lay back the covering from his 
still brow, cold and white, and dead — 

‘ Look on its broken arch, its ruined wall, 

Its chambers desolate and portals foul.’ 

Look on those glazed and rayless eyes, through which 
the uproused soul looked out entranced upon the sublime 
and the beautiful, or sent its tire flashing in the face of 
its foe. Look on those livid lips, the fiery chariot of 
whose eloquence once wafted thousands toward heaven — 
look, and behold a ruin for which a nation might wring 
its hands and weep, for it is a great mind in ruins. ” Gaze 
upon the towering form of that golden-lipped orator 
whose eloquence startled and awed by its wondrous 
power, the listening thousands of his enraptured country- 
men. When he would sweep the gentler chords of the 
human heart or tell some lonely tale of woe, his words 
were soft as the under chime of some embodied spirit of 
music ; “ sweet as angel whispers,” low as iEolian winds, 
but, when he summoned the foe to the tournament, his 
voice fell upon the soul like the shout of victorious 
armies. We have sat and heard him repeat the inimita- 
ble wonders of the immortal Shakspeare until we forgot 
his frailties and felt the presence of a royal man. We 
turn our weeping eyes to the solitary gloom of a distant 
asylum, and harken to the last wail of his broken harp, 
and mourn as we see the lightning-scarred wing of the 
princely eagle struggling once more to touch the high, 
far shining worlds of olden thought and power. Let a 
Pharisaical and an unfeeling world launch its Puritan 
thunder over his lonely tomb — we have nothing but our 
tears to rain upon his blighted glory. The touch of his 
stormy harp thrills us with a hopeful sorrow, and a glad 
thought rises like a star above his cold remains, a beauti- 
ful hope that Almighty mercy had gently gathered up 


68 


LIFE, LECTURES AND POETRY 


the fragments of his shattered soul, heard his mournful, 
pleading prayer — heard it in love and tenderness — 

“ Lord ! mercy for me — 

Receive me! receive me to heaven and Thee! ” 

and pouring the spirit’s redeeming mercies around his 
fallen glory, brightened his last hours of woe and sorrow 
with the visions of a beautiful world, “ where the wicked 
cease from troubling and the weary are at rest.” 

Young men of the South, educate your intellects, cul- 
tivate your hearts, gather knowledge from earth, and 
light and strength from heaven. Your country's future 
rests upon you. The old dead glory of elective fran- 
chise, and the grand prerogative of representation, the 
Corinthian pillars of the constitution, will be exhumed — 
resurrected from the ruins piled about them, amid the 
shoutings of a grateful people. When your fathers 
sleep in honored tombs you will go forth to battle for 
constitutional freedom — go forth as the defenders of 
law, order, government, truth and justice — go forth in- 
vested with the rights of citizenship, the champions of 
exiled liberty and outraged humanity, battling only for 
the eternal principles of right. You will go forth to till 
our pulpits, our judicial thrones, our professorships, our 
editorial chairs, crowd our legislative halls, throng our 
senate chambers, become our presidents, and governors, 
and congressmen, and guide the destinies of the glorious 
South along the shining path of national distinction, pros- 
perity and honor. The bitter prejudices of to-day will con- 
sume themselves in the avenging flames of their own hate — 
become their own funeral pile. Out of the smouldering 
embers of sectional strife and political madness we hope to 
see arising the angel of brotherhood — the spirit of a holy 
and beautiful peace. The country is yet young, and we 
look to see a manly stride over the dark and bloody 
memories of the past, and an unwearied march to the 


OF EGBERT HAYWOOD OSBORNE. 


69 


goal of prosperity. Our fields are resounding to the hum 
of honest toil, the song of the reapers and the shouts of 
the harvest hymn thrills the soul with its hopeful music. 
The click of the artisan’s hammer, and the ling of the 
anvil tell us that honest labor has resumed her stand by 
the post of duty and toil. The plowshare, the axe and 
the hoe are doing their grand work of regeneration 
throughout our beautiful land. Commerce lifts her 
drooping head and tosses her golden locks like an angel 
of the sun. Religion and learning will give a grander 
impetus to the chariot wheels of civilization, and under 
the beautiful inspirations of peace and brotherly love our 
wreck-covered land will plume her pinions and arch her 
proud neck for a wider, grander flight to the bright em- 
pyrean of immortality. Cleared for action in the wide 
and shining fields of industry and enterprise, the glori- 
ous South will resume her old proud position, and wealth 
and prosperity pour their golden treasures in her lap. 
Though now tossed upon the waves of troublous times, 
passing through the martyr’s flames, we trust soon to 
see the dove coming over the waste of gloomy waves 
bearing the olive branch of love from every quarter of 
our distracted country, and to hear the lips that cursed 
breathe only words of charity and tones of forgiveness. 
May the ark of the Constitution, the last hope of Amer- 
ican liberty, bear the freighted hopes and prayers of the 
people safely to the mount of rest, the broad and shin- 
ing bosom of some heaven-crowned Ararat, where the 
whole nation may bury the fiend of discord, and over its 
grave breathe the vows of friendship. 

Young men of the South, blessed be ye of the Lord ! 
May vou fulfill the proud hopes of your country and 
realize the dreams of your fathers, the prayers of your 
mothers, in nobly battling for the majesty of truth, the 
dignity of law and the rights of humanity ! We plead 
with you by the glorious names of our hero dead, by the 


70 


LIFE, LECTURES AND POETRY 


immortal memory of Jackson, Johnston, Polk, Cleburne, 
Stuart, Ashby and a hundred other noble names, grander 
than the titled pomp of kings, forever linked to fame, 
forever wedded to immortality, to be true to your 
country in every hour of peril, in every dark day of 
sorrow. Leave her not alone in her blinding woe : say 
with your hands upon her fallen altars, standing amid her 
lonely ruins, “ thy people shall be my people, thy God 
shall be my God,” “ I will never leave thee nor forsake 
thee.” Oh, give me a grave without an epitaph, a tomb 
without a tear — let me live and die amid thy ruins, oh 
land of my birth, rather than seek an asylum of peace, 
a palace of wealth and rest on the distant shores of some 
foreign land. “ Home, sweet Home ! ” 

Here sleep the ashes of my beautiful dead, here fell the 
hero dead, and here they rest “ after life’s fitful fever.” 
Young men of the South! hopes of my country! may 
he who guides the destinies of men and nations and “ reign- 
eth throughout all generations,” guard our interest and 
guide us to prosperity ! The Lord reigneth ! Justice and 
judgment are the habitation of his throne ! Trust in the 
Lord forever, for in the Lord Jehovah there is everlasting 
strength. “ He is King of kings and Lord of lords!” 
Let us as a people look to Him for help and strength to 
sustain and cheer and comfort in every hour of peril. 
“ The Judge of all the earth will do right.” 


IDLE IDYL. 

Have you heard the wail of a broken heart, 
Burdened with care and full of sorrow, 

That hath seen its brightest hopes depart, 

And perish with the dawn of each to-morrow? 
A harp with all its rich strings broken, 

Or breathing naught save a wintry cry 


OF EGBERT HAYWOOD OSBORNE. 


71 


A spirit with no bright and blessed token 
Save earth’s boon of woe; the wish to die ! 

Ah ! such a blighted, broken urn ! 

Once shined a thousand hallowed hopes, 

Those hopes, alas ! will ne’er return, 

They have perished like wave-swept ropes 
Of teraptest-drifted wreck, or rolling sand 
On some storm-rocked wintry strand ! 

I have watched the heaves of the distant deep 
Freighted with wealth from every clime, 

O’er lone dark waters proudly sweep 

To the port of death — life’s midnight shrine ! 
Wrecked ’mid a treacherous stormy sea, 

“ When heaven was all tranquillity,” 

Go down to death while friends were on the shore 
Waiting to meet the loves they’ll meet no more ! 
Full many a time my little barque, 

Crowded with hope’s precious freight, 

Breasted the billows, fierce and dark, 

Scorning the puny waves of hate, 

Proudly it swept for many an hour, 

Triumphant in its mighty power, 

When all was calm and “ cloudless clear ” 

When Zephyrs kissed its sunlit sail. 

A sudden tempest dark and drear 
Dirged hope's last funeral wail, 

So barque and hope and freight went down, 

And the laurel wreath ambition wove 
Withered like atumnal leaves, 

All left the soul save heavenly love ; 

The charm its magic power weaves, 

Still crowds the heart with high desire ; 

Still lights life’s path with heavenly fire. 

I will not sink or droop or pine, 

While its eternal fires shine; 

Life has its ties, its household gods — 


72 


LIFE, LECTURES AND POETRY 


Nor can affliction’s scourging rods 

Break the proud spirit’s conquering might 
While love’s stars kindle up the night. 

’Mid weal or woe, ’mid joy or gloom 
I’ll hail alike life’s coming doom 
And press right on, nor idly wait 
To hear the jibes of envious fate, 

Trusting and toiling I will calmly bide, 
The ebb of life’s relentless tide. 

Bolivar, Tenn., Nov. 24, 1864. 


BIRDLINGS OF THE ROOF TREE. 

1 have heard the woodland warblers sing, 

The song birds of the orange bowers, 

With rainbow hues upon their wing, 

Mid the far-off land of flowers; 

And in my own dear home I’ve heard 
The thousand songs of the mocking bird. 

I have sat me down by the streamlet’s side, 

And lent my ear to its silvery song 
In the witching hour of eventide; 

I have watched its waters glide along, 

And thought how sweet its native lay 
As I saw the rippling wavelets play. 

I have felt the spell of music in my heart 
And owned with joy its magic power, 

I was ever saddest, latest to depart, 

For beauties festal bower; 

Yet o’er all the music, give, oh, give to me 
My birdling’s song neath my own roof tree. 

Bolivar, Tenn., Dec. 13, 1856. 


OF EGBERT HAYWOOD OSBORNE. 


73 


JULIA E. OSBORNE, DIED MARCH 15, 1864. 

Gone to the spirit’s home on high,* 
Beyond earth’s gloomy sorrow, 

Far up above the beauteous sky, 

Thou knowest no dim to-morrow. 
With God forevermore 
Upon the heavenly shore, 

Where falls no dreary tear, 

No woe, no gloomy, deep despair. 

No sickness, pain, or fever, 

But God and Christ are thine 
Forever saved — saved in infancy, 
From sin and sorrow ever free, 

No taint upon thy heart, no gloom 
Chased thy footsteps to the tomb, 
One moment thou didst stay, 

Then passed from earth away 
To the morn of a brighter day. 
Farewell ! oh, meet me when I come 
And welcome Father home. 

Jan’y 6, 1865. 


THE SPHERE AND MISSION OF WOMAN. 

The sphere and mission of woman is a theme honored 
by the voice of eloquence, and consecrated by song and 
lyre far round the world, from the primal glories of Eden 
to the shining noon of the nineteenth century. 

While I am profoundly sensible of my inability to mas- 
ter the subject, in all its wide-reaching influences, as it 
permeates the sacred precincts of home, and touches the 
intricate network, causation, which lies all about the 
springs of human action, and humbly trust that I maybe 
able to shrine the theme in some brave and loving heart, 


74 


LIFE, LECTURES AND POETRY 


and hold up the world’s last hope to the pure homage of 
intellect, may the subject exalt us by its dignity and charm 
us by its beauty. Political discussions fire the heart with 
a sense of accumulated wrong and despicable tyranny. 
The sectarian ebullitions of bigoted hierophants outrage 
the individuality of sentiment, and libel the pure spirit 
of religion, with feelings of bitterness, envy and hate. 
This subject is inwrought with the history of the human 
race, and comes down to us, teeming with the grandest 
interests, and freighted with the holiest affections, 
throughout the ebb and flow of mighty agitations, for fifty 
centuries. Poetry has baptized the subject in the pure 
waters of perennial song, from the blind old bard of Scio’s 
rocky isle, to the music tones of the last sweet harp that 
charmed us with its beauty. The history of a pure litera- 
ture, for many ages, has spent the forces of cultured 
thought and exalted sentiment upon it. I follow rever- 
ently in the wake of genius and learning ; and like some 
humble star mid the glories which glow about me, I can 
only hope to weave my fainter light around a theme which 
has absorbed the glorious splendors of many sons of 
science and of song. Making no foolish claims, or vain 
aspirings, to literary merit, I cannot hope to evoke any- 
thing original from a subject whose every recess has been 
thoroughly penetrated by the gifted of earth. I would 
speak true words out of a loving heart, to rouse my hon- 
ored countrywomen from the lethargy of indolence, and 
sketch before them the portraiture of their fearful power 
and sublime influence upon all who come within the 
charmed circle of their presence. 

Woman’s Sphere. — As to the position she should occu- 
py in the world, many of the wise and good, of both sexes, 
have differed. In this age, when wild revolutions are 
sweeping away the old landmarks of duty, and drifting 
our people from the beautiful haven where we have been 
so long anchored in quiet peacefulness, there are those 


OF EGBERT HAYWOOD OSBORNE. 


75 


who would even scourge woman from her divinely ap- 
pointed sphere, and hurl her into the wild and stormy 
waters of political life. 

The gifted authoress of St. Elmo makes the lips of her 
heroine, Edna, utter some truths that it would be well for 
every woman to note and cherish. She says, speaking to 
Sir Roger Percival : “ I think, sir, that the noble and true 
women of this continent earnestly believe that the day 
which invests them with the elective franchise would be 
the blackest in the annals of humanity — would ring the 
death-knell of modern civilization, of national prosperity, 
social morality and domestic happiness ! and would con- 
sign the race to a night of degradation and horror infi- 
nitely more appalling than a return to primeval barbarism. 
Then every exciting political canvass would witness the 
revolting deeds of the furies who assisted in storming the 
Tuilleries ; and repetitions of scenes enacted during the 
French Revolution, which mournfully attest how terrible 
indeed are female natures when once perverted. God, 
the maker, tenderly anchored womanhood in the peaceful, 
blessed haven of home; and if man is ever insane enough 
to mar the divine economy, by setting woman afloat on 
the turbulent, roaring sea of politics, they will speedily 
become pitiable wrecks. Sooner than such an inversion 
of social order, I would welcome even Turkish bondage; 
for surely utter ignorance is infinitely preferable to 
erudite un womanliness. ” 

There is something so exclusively shrinking in the 
nature of a pure-minded woman that she turns away with 
a shudder of disgust and loathing from the bold, hard, 
unpitying gaze of public assemblies, and seeks to find a 
purer pleasure amid the more genial haunts of domestic 
life. I will not assume the position, in view of what has 
been accomplished by woman in all the departments of 
learning, that nature has not qualified her with the intel- 
lectual powers to meet the conflicts of the forum, and the 


76 


LIFE, LECTURES AND POETRY 


fierce contentions of battling giants. Though I am speak- 
ing of her sphere , and not her intellectual powers, I will 
say that her failure to crown the giddy and stormy heights 
of political strife, where the flippant harlequin and the de- 
moralized aspirant for fame and pelf are gambling for pre- 
cedency, is not so much the absence of intellectual power 
as the active presence of a pure heart , where the moral 
force of her being gain the ascendency over the cold and 
calculating suggestions of intellect. The social and do- 
mestic empire of life, where all the finer and gentler emo- 
tions, and purer thoughts and convictions of life origi- 
nate — Home , where the seed-sowers of eternity live, and 
great thoughts, destined to light the world for ages, are 
born ; where the tremendous issues of life and death, gen- 
erate into all the active operations of human destiny, and 
stretch out into eternal interests. Here she stands, at 
the junction battery of great thoughts and great deeds, 
winging them with light, and sending forth missionaries 
with power to revolutionize the habitable globe. 

“ The right to be learned, wise, noble, useful, in 
woman’s divinely limited sphere; the right to influence 
and exalt the circle in which she moves; the right to 
mount the sanctified bema of her own quiet hearthstone; 
the right to modify and direct her husband’s opinions, if 
he considers her worthy and competent to guide him ; the 
right to make her children ornaments to the nation and a 
crown of glory to their race ; the right to advise, to plead, 
to pray ; the right to make her desk a Delphi, if God so 
permits ; the right to be all that the phrase ‘ nolle Chris- 
tian woman ’ means. But not the right to vote; to 
harangue from the hu-tings; to trail her heaven-born 
purity through the dust and mire of political strife; to 
ascend the rostra of statesmen, whither she may send a 
worthy husband, son or brother, but whither she can 
never go, without disgracing all womanhood, .” — Ex- 
tract from St. Elmo. 


OF EGBERT HAYWOOD OSBORNE. 77 

The puny politician, the proud philosopher, the dia- 
dem ined monarch, the laurel-crowned hero of many bat- 
tles, yields to woman the homage of manly chivalry, and 
crowns her empress of power on the throne of exalted 
affection. Ambition itself will leave the applause of lis- 
tening senates, the shout of victorious armies, the starlit 
paths of science, to lay its hard-won honors at the feet of 
one gentle, loving heart that beats at home. While Na- 
poleon, whose nod dethroned kings and dismantled em- 
pires, yielded to the beautiful love of the gifted and 
gentle Josephine, even his battle-parched lips could touch 
the draught of peace, and visions of rest and tranquil joy 
calmed his stormy ambition. When he put her away 
from his home, he could not tear her image from his 
heart; and the star of his destiny began to set; the 
shadows of St. Helena, the sob of storms and the conflict 
of wild waves crowned the close of his ambitious life with 
the requiem of his early love, upon whose blasted altar 
he would have throned the unborn idol of ambition. 

There may be in the United States a few of those un- 
fortunate abnormal developments familiarly known as 
“ strong-minded women/’ who, forgetful of home inter- 
ests, and regardless of nature’s appeals, would rush un- 
bidden where the rude rabble shout and hiss, and the 
wild waves of political and social factions meet and break 
over stranded virtue; but a true-hearted woman shrinks 
from such unwomanly contaminations, and seeks, amid 
the holy endearments of her heaven-appointed sphere, a 
deeper joy and a purer ambition. 

Home is the nursery where angels are educated for 
heaven. Infinite wisdom hath bequeathed to woman 
peculiarly the guardianship of souls. She educates, and 
her lessons of wisdom are breathed in never-to-be-for- 
gotten tones of love, that throb in the soul forever, at 
home, amid the sanctities of the domestic circle — the 
charmed relations of the family. Whenever woman seeks 


78 LIFE, LECTURES AND POETRY 

the forum, the rostrum, the hustings, she unsexes her- 
self, loses her prestige with the wise and good, drifts 
from the moorings of her destiny, and sinks to the com- 
mon level with the trickster and the clown. The refined 
sensibilities of her nature beat in perpetual antagonism 
to the rude glare of notorious publicity, and when she 
drifts from the circle of home she floats on dark and 
strange tides, a broken wreck — hopeless, aimless, helm- 
less. To wage a truceless war against the good that is 
within us, can only end in the defeat of virtue and the 
triumph of bleak and desolate ruin. 

Let ray honored countrywomen frown upon every 
effort to exile them from their heaven-appointed sphere. 
Let them brighten their homes, left in sorrowful desola- 
tion and lonely woe by the ravages of war. Home, sanc- 
tified by intelligence, piety and affection — girt with the 
trailing vine, and blooming with beautiful flowers, glad 
with the harmonies of music, and filled with cultured 
thought and holy love, is the Eden of earth — the nearest 
spot to heaven. You must make home beautiful, attract- 
ive, happy ; and win the wanderers of earth from the 
haunts of foreign pleasure to the gentle peace and pure joy 
of home, sanctified by your presence, lit by your smile 
and strengthened by your cultivated intellects. Remem- 
ber that the devastations of civil war has impoverished 
the land. We sit amid the ruined fortunes of a once 
prosperous and affluent nation. Prove yourselves, in 
this hour of peril and want, “ helpmeets” indeed and 
in truth. Do not continue to impoverish, by useless and 
vain extravagance and reckless expenditures, the taxed 
and toil-won means of indulgent fathers and affectionate 
husbands. Help them to bear their heavy burdens with 
cheerfulness, industry and energy. Let them not feel 
that you are slaves of fashion and dupes to the tyranny 
of vanity. It is no time for elegant ease, and shiftless 
indolence, and refined nonsense. No time for gorgeous 


OF EGBERT HAYWOOD OSBORNE. 


79 


array. Oh ! think of the gaunt skeletons of poverty that 
are stalking amid the melancholy ruins of our sorrowing 
land — think of the starving widows, and homeless 
orphans, and stricken-hearted wanderers over all the 
South. Think of these things, and trample upon the 
growing tendencies of the age to extravagance. Society 
needs your purifying words to give to it a higher tone, 
a grander work. Southern women should be too proud, 
too true to themselves, too true to the memory of their 
dead idols, too true to the sorrows of the living now, to 
enrich their enemies, who have reduced them to want, 
by the expenditure of thousands, aye, millions, in sub- 
mission to Northern fashion. I hesitate not to say 
that enough money is expended for useless dressing and 
idle show, annually, from this poor, ruined, taxed and 
blasted country, to build a church on every hill, and a 
schoolhouse in every valley of our sorrowing South. 
These are humiliating and melancholy reflections. There 
is a great wrong somewhere, and you alone have the 
power to rectify this great social madness and error. 
The mission of woman is closely and intimately woven 
with the warp and woof of woman’s sphere : it is difficult 
to divorce them, yet they are different. Her mission is 
to honor God. Woman, destitute of piety, is indeed a 
fallen angel. First to stretch forth the hand of rebellion 
to the high mandates of her Maker, ’tis fit that she should 
bow the votive knee at the Cross of Calvary and the Tomb 
of Joseph — 

“ illure to brighter worlds and lead the way.” 

To woman’s piety and devotion belong, in a great 
measure, the future victories of the church. To her 
belongs the grand responsibility of training the future 
warriors of our holy and beautiful religion. Let her 
close her eyes to the wants of humanity, and shut up the 
portals of her heart against the appeals of Christianity — 


80 LIFE, LECTURES AND POETRY 

let her listen to the siren song of iufidelity, and sit down 
at the feet of Paine, Volney and Voltaire, and the stand- 
ards of exalted piety will sink down amid the cohorts of 
earth, and the banner of moral death float from the deso- 
late altars of a pure religion. As is the mother so is the 
daughter — so is the son. As is the wife so is the hus- 
band. “ The lords of creation ” are but flippant fancy’s 
garniture of words. From home she sends out her 
influences over the world, for weal or woe. 

“ Those who rock the cradle rule the world.” 

Woman outrages her being in refusing the homage of 
her heart to the God who fashioned her thus gloriously, 
and clothed her with such power. Above all she needs 
the consolation of religion. Man can rush out amid the 
wild throng and hush the dread rebukings of conscience 
in the wild bunt for gold or the long strife for fame. He 
can find momentary peace amid the all-absorbing interests 
of commerce and trade, or he can flee away from the 
hushed quietude of home and out upon the rolling deep, 
or on the mountain’s star-crowned brow, where Alpine 
heights are piled up toward heaven, hush the cold sneers 
of reason amid the gorgeous wonders of nature and of 
art. Woman must dwell at home; her household gods 
are there, her treasures are there, her hopes are there. 

’Tis home where’er the heart is, 

Where’er its living treasures dwell, 

In cabin or in princely hall, 

In forest haunt or hermit’s cell.” 

To the Christianity of a divine Christ she owes her 
present exalted social position. There are lands where 
the Cross has never blazed, and the gentle refinements 
and purifying peace of a holy religion never shone. 
There woman is the slave of passion and a beast of bur- 
den. j Here, where we can see the summit of Mount 


OF EGBERT HAYWOOD OSBORNE. 


81 


Calvary and the throne of intercession, she is the crown 
of our rejoicing. Here she is no slave. Yet the law of 
her being, the dictates of her nature, bind her to her 
roof-tree with the cords of destiny. She must dwell at 
home, not as a parlor ornament, an epitome of the 
fashions of Paris, London and New York — but guiding, 
instructing, elevating, purifying, blessing all about her, 
a glory in her own house, ruling in every department 
with taste, industry and economy. Home is her world. 
She must dwell at home, for there, and nowhere else, 
can she be happy. Thare are sorrows that gloom the 
hearthstone, and she cannot hush the wail of her bleed- 
ing heart in the giddy crowd of painted fashion and flip- 
pant fools. She folds the shroud about some white face, 
and sits down in woe, like Rachel weeping for her chil- 
dren, and would not be comforted because they were not. 
Over her dead idol she murmurs “Thy will be done,” 
and above the shadows that darken her home, she hears 
the voice of many angels singing the anthem of the res- 
urrection. One voice she knows — it is her child’s ! 

Religion is the crown of a woman’s glory. She sees 
the hopes and dreams of maiden fancy fade about her, 
and feels that the arm she loved and trusted and leaned 
upon is broken; her idols have all turned to dust — her 
love, her trust, her devotion have been scorned, her dream 
of life and love is broken, her bright hopes gone down to 
the grave over which there shines no bow of promise, no 
star of hope. Alone and forsaken, she turns away from 
earth and anchors her heart in heaven. Her trust is in 
God. The education of the youth of our country finds 
its origin, end and aim amid the far-reaching influence of 
woman’s exalted mission. She evolves from out the heart 
all the forces of moral heroism and exalted principle. She 
molds with the hand of destiny. Her pictures on the 
heart are ambrotypes — angels will look upon them with 
gladness or sorrow. Home education in the South should 


6 


82 


LIFE, LECTURES AND POETRY 


evoke the highest energies of Southern mothers. Thou- 
sands of noble boys and bright and beautiful girls in the 
ruined South can never receive the advantages of a col- 
legiate education. They must be educated at home, under 
the sleepless eye of a mother’s tender care, trained for 
the battle of life by a mother’s hand. Who are better 
educators for the youth of our land than woman? With 
a thoroughly cultivated mind and heart, she is an immor- 
tal light in a schoolroom. If her lessons are lessons of 
wisdom the soul will harbor their memory forever. If 
her words are the words of purity and truth the heart 
will beat the music tones of honor amid all the drifting 
shadows that girt the path of being. The dust of the 
tomb may repose upon the lips that uttered angel words, 
throbbing with deathless hopes. Yet the evangel can 
never perish from the chambers of the soul. By the 
dying couch of pain they will stand an embodied glory — 
their melody will be heard above the roar of the dark 
river. Amid the thousand hierarchies of heaven the re- 
deemed one will lay his trophies at the feet of Christ and 
say, girt by rejoicing angels, there stands my soul’s 
guardian — her lips taught me to say “ Our Father,” her 
hand led me to the house of God, she pointed me to Cal- 
vary and guided me to heaven ! Eternity alone will un- 
fold the power of woman. 

Woman’s mission compasses the woes and wants of 
suffering humanity. Man, as he is, fallen and sorrowful, 
tempted and tried, broken and reeling under the great 
black burden of his woe, needs some voice to cheer him 
on, some hand to guide in duty’s path, some beaming eye 

“ To mark his coming, and look brighter 
When he comes. ” 

Men are apt rather to rejoice at the fall of stars, the 
going out of suns behind thunder clouds of disappoint- 
ment, and they gibe and jest with cruel mockery when 


OF EGBERT HAYWOOD OSBORNE. 


83 


some mighty genius, blazing far above them, breaks be- 
neath the great woes of earth, 

“ And some proud ship goes down at sea, 

When heaven is all tranquillity.” 

Men lack charily , sympathy — their hard, cold, earthly, 
covetous hearts too often throb with selfish thoughts. 
A true womands always charitable — rarely ever selfish, 
and she espouses the cause of poor suffering humanity 
everywhere. She listens to the sobbing from lonely 
hearts, hears the pleadings of the poor and the needy, and 
stands ready to wipe the tear from the white cheek of 
anguish and whisper words of hope to the friendless or- 
phans of earth. A ministering angel at the couch of 
pain, a great glad-light in the desolate home of mourn- 
ing — last at the cross and first at the sepulcher, my heart 
honors and reveres both her virtue and her genius. 
Woman’s mission is to labor for the advancement of all 
those exalted principles of virtue which adorn humanity 
and rescue mankind from the paths of error. This she can 
accomplish by the cultivation of her intellect. I need only 
mention the names of many gifted women known in the 
shining realms of literature, to shame into silence the un- 
manly sneer, the half-exploded dogma of a less liberal 
age, that woman lacks capacity. Hannah More was the 
first female who ever wielded an extensive intellectual in- 
fluence on British society. She really and permanently 
elevated her sex, public opinion was enlightened by her 
literary labors. Along most of the crowded thorough- 
fares of literature and moral improvement, woman walks 
proudly and serenely by the side of man. On the far- 
shining heights of philosophical and mathematical science 
there are fair forms and bright faces, now pressing on- 
ward and upward where formerly it would have been 
deemed little less than sacrilege for any but bearded giants 
to have adventured. Wherever the English tongue is 


84 


LIFE, LECTURES AND POETRY 


spoken, the writings of British and American women are 
now diffused. There is a demand everywhere for edu- 
cated female intellect, as teachers in infant, Sabbath, com- 
mon schools and academies of learning throughout the 
South. The late Dr. Spurzheim once said, “ till women 
are taught to reason they cannot cultivate the reasoning 
powers of their children aright, and hence it is that the 
passions and selfish feelings are made so predominant in 
the greater portion of mankind. Ladies must take the 
lead in correcting these errors. ” In the sublime pagean- 
try of wonders that is sweeping around us to-day, woman 
has a higher mission to accomplish than 

“ To suckle fools and chronicle small beer.” 

While woman may not defile her robes by mingling in 
legislative halls and senate chambers, and screaming amid 
gasconading babblers, she can write, for she has written. 
Her written words will burn down into many hearts and 
live there in images of beauty forever. She has struck 
the harp of poesy, and the glad melody has rung round 
the world, making music in many desolate hearts. She 
has gone down into the sparkling deep of pure literature, 
and coming forth she has shaken her shining wings ladened 
with the golden drops of thought. She has penetrated the 
mysteries of nature’s laboratory, thrown open the portals 
of science and laid at the world’s feet “ gifts, gold, frank- 
incense and myrrh,” wreathes that bloomed upon Parnas- 
sus, and overflowing goblets from the waters of Helicon. 
She always writes purely, and truthfully, and lovingly. 
Cultivated female intellect, vestured with pure emotions 
and lofty principles of duty, is destined to accomplish 
more than the thunders of the forum for the alleviation 
of suffering and the elevation of man in the scale of 
moral , intellectual and social worth. 

Woman’s true mission is forever linked with the de- 
velopment of her intellectual faculties. The true mean- 


OF EGBERT HAYWOOD OSBORNE. 85 

ing of the word educate is to, draw out, to develop, to 
unfold. Books and sciences do not educate with power. 
We may read many books, wander o’er memory’s golden 
shore throughout all the regions of the dead past, and 
hold familiar converse with the mighty of all ages, girt 
by the glowing lights of departed greatness, yet, if we 
comprehend not the higher science of thinking , all we 
see, or hear, or read will sweep the chords of the soul 
like a glorious melody, and leave scarce a memory of 
beauty or grandeur to cheer the murdered years of life. 
Better throw your books away and hold communion with 
nature, turn the sun-lit leaves in its vast volume of won- 
ders, commune with thy heart and read the lessons shin- 
ing on the stars, singing in the brooks, murmuring in the 
winds, sobbing in the storms, and whispering in the 
zephyrs, than to read many hooks without thinking. It is 
not so much the number of books we read that imparts 
wisdom and pours grand thoughts and holy gifts about 
our lives. Good books, read with deep thought, are 
good friends. They speak truthfully, they mold our 
tastes, form our manners, strengthen our minds and 
purify our hearts. Let the young submit to the culti- 
vated and judicious decision of friendship to select for 
them a suitable course of reading, and not blindly stag- 
ger forward amid the deadly pitfalls of corrupt litera- 
ture. Whatever we read thoughtfully will influence our 
morals and affect our character and happiness. 

There never was a period so crowded with the solemn 
and portentous interests of many unborn generations as 
the present now. Every avenue, every influence should 
be well and judiciously weighed and guarded. We are 
sitting to-day amid the melancholy ruins of a once glori- 
ous land. Our altars are burned, our homes desolate; 
political madness and wild fanaticism sweep fiercely over 
the broken hopes and blighted anticipations of a once 
prosperous, free and happy people. The tendencies of 


86 


LIFE, LECTURES AND POETRY 


the age are vastly and profoundly demoralizing. Our 
country is drenched in the far-reaching dissipation. The 
palace and the hovel, the Church of Christ and the gates 
of moral death, stand side by side. Lights from heaven 
and shadows from hell meet and mingle in wild confusion 
over all our lonely land. Educate female intellect and 
heart must arise, and breathing purely over the chaotic 
scene, show us the good, the true and the beautiful, and 
point out the black shadows which are glooming our 
social, intellectual and moral glory, and brightly, 
gently woo their wandering loved ones back to the 
sanctities of home, the shining haven of truth and 
duty. I would not have you unsex yourselves and rush 
amid the troubled waters of political strife. You can 
stay the black flood of ruin without compromising the 
dignity and purity of your position, or exiling yourselves 
from the peaceful joys of home. Upon the intellectual 
and moral character of the people depends the future 
prosperity of our beautiful Southern land. It is not by 
might or by power that a nation rises up toward endur- 
ing greatness. The fountains of her affluence may be 
inexhaustible, the magnificence of her armies awe the 
world, her banners float triumphantly over all waters, 
yet , if the nation’s moral powers he festered with infidelity , 
mental barrenness and political corruption , her glory will 
be a jest for fools. 

The influence and power of woman can mold public 
opinion by purifying the public heart. She can give 
dignity and character to nations as well as individuals. 
Let woman instill a love of virtue in every beating heart 
about her, and flash her withering glance of virtuous ab- 
horrence upon vice, whether reeling in rags or shining 
in pampered pomp and bloated splendor. If her power, 
and purity, and beauty, her prayers and tears cannot 
reform, flash the glance of destiny upon the recreant 
craven, and gibbet his foul name on the lightning- 


OF EGBERT HAYWOOD OSBORNE. 


87 


mantled summits of indignant scorn. Write his epitaph 
in every glance of your pitying scorn, let him feel that 
though living in the world, the doors have been closed 
against him, and he is socially, because morally , dead. 
Woo him until he tramples upon you, then turn away 
in tears to pray, and if you cannot reclaim him to the 
paths of duty he is not a man . Illustrative of woman’s 
influence upon the fallen and erring, I will here state 
what I have somewhere heard, concerning one of Vir- 
ginia’s noblest and most gifted sons, William West. He 
had yielded to the dread madness of the wine-cup until, 
abandoned by friends, shunned by his old boon com- 
panions, deserted, neglected and pitied, he was a poor 
loathsome wreck of manhood, hopeless and crushed. 
Lying prostrated, bloated and blistered by the burning 
sun, he was sleeping the troubled slumber of dead intoxi- 
cation. A beautiful, accomplished and highly respect- 
able young girl saw, with sorrowful eyes, the murdered 
ruin of a great man. Touched by pity she placed her 
handkerchief, inscribed with her name, over his marred 
features and went her way. He awoke from his drunken 
torpor — one glance at that magic name told him plainer 
than words who had witnessed his degradation. Fold- 
ing it away tenderly in his bosom, he glanced at the 
past, the present and the future. New purposes were 
formed, new and nobler resolves breathed deep down in 
his heart that day. That gentle act of mercy had saved 
him. When time had proven the sincerity of his refor- 
mation, and the rich tones of his eloquence had cheered 
many hearts, she consented to walk with him the troubled 
paths of life and shine upon him the orbfcd glory of his 
being. 

Far away in the floral bosom of a Southern State 
there was a gorgeous wedding, and a splendid company 
of the young, the rich, the gay and the beautiful. The 
bridegroom was a brilliant and a rising star. He had 


88 


LIFE, LECTURES AND POETRY 


shaken off his habits of dissipation which were dragging 
him down to ruin, joined the Sons of Temperance, and 
regained the confidence of his numerous friends. He 
won the heart of a gay, beautiful maiden, the only child 
of wealthy parents. Mid wine, and song, and jest, the 
merry dance swept on; music and gladness filled every 
heart. His father-in-law invited him to take a glass of 
wine on that occasion only. He respectfully but firmly 
declined. His gay companions taunted him jestingly, 
and many a fair young girl challenged him that festal 
night to drink her health. He stood firm. His young 
bride laid one jeweled hand upon him, in the other she 
held a glass of ruby wine; sipping it carelessly and ca- 
ressingly, she begged him to help her drink it. One fatal 
moment he paused and his proud form shivered as if in 
pain. All eyes were upon them. She was pleading, 
“ Help me drink it ! help me drink it ! ’’when he snatched 
the glass and drained it to the bottom ! The demon of 
his nature was only slumbering. Invitation after invita- 
tion crowded upon him. He drank with all, drank deeply, 
fiercely, madly. Reason trembled upon its throne. He 
was lost to the elegant refinement of the occasion. His 
friends forced him away to an office that stood in the 
corner of the yard. There he summoned his boon com- 
panions about him. Still the gay dance swept through 
the proud halls to bursts of glorious music. Hark ! what 
wild, unearthly cry is that which bursts like a demoniac 
shout upon the midnight hush, and rises over the sound 
of revelry? Again, again — nearer, nearer! Why do 
the revelers pause and hold their breath, and listen as if 
in some fearful trance of horror? Hark! do you hear it? 
God of Heaven! look! look! a wild and haggard face, 
lit by the lurid fires of fierce delirium, glares upon the 
gay throng of dancers. Again, that demoniac shout! 
Every form quivers, and every face is covered. Strong 
men are palsied with fear. Beautiful women shriek and 


OF EGBERT HAYWOOD OSBORNE. 


89 


faint. Again that cry is wailed forth howlingly wild. 
The red waves of a burst heart are gushing over white 
lips. One moment, and he falls, a blood-flecked corpse 
in that gorgeous home. May God forgive that foolish, 
thoughtless woman ! 

The South owes much to woman’s influence. Her 
moral heroism nerved to deeds of deathless daring, the 
fiery spirits of Southern valor. With more than Spartan 
courage, she bore, without murmuring, the dread hard- 
ships and bitter wastings, and lonely woe of a relentless 
war, through long and weary years. And now she sits 
by the grave of her buried idols, and baptizes their im- 
mortal names in the tears of a brave and holy sorrow. 
Now she gathers up the deathless dust of her household 
gods from the lonely trenches of the battle, and shrines 
them in monumental tombs, and wreathes them with flow- 
ers that can never die. Moral courage is the fruitage of 
great power. Many a coward heart beat with the bitter 
tremblings of fear, in the dens and caves and valleys of 
his native land, while a wife, a mother, a sister or a 
daughter, stood by the burning wreck of desolated homes, 
and proudly hurled the fiery words of loathing, scorn, and 
grand defiance, into the remorseless hearts of those who 
had turned them homeless wanderers through the land. 

In conclusion, permit me to summon your attention to 
the four beautiful and holy relations which woman sus- 
tains to man : Mother! How childhood’s memories clus- 
ter round that endearing, honored name ! Boyhood’s 
hallowed dreams hover about it. Manhood’s holiest 
associations group reverently over the memory of a 
mother’s words of hope. Mother! Here I find inex- 
haustible sources of endearment — untold treasures of 
love — music tones of tenderness, throbbing and shining 
through all the currents of life ; beating in all hearts, 
however false or fallen, and lighting the pathway of the 
tempted and tried of earth, from the helplessness of 


90 


LIFE, LECTURES AND POETRY 


infancy to the dreary shadows of old age. The melody 
of her lullaby falls upon the maddened heart, stirred by 
the pitiless strife of ambition, and summons the soul to 
the holy and half-forgotten memories of home. Though 
all hearts forsake him, all lips speak words of bitter 
scorn, and all hands are raised to' smite, she loves on, 
speaks tenderly, hopefully, and her hand soothes the 
aching brow of manhood as gently as she folded away 
the silken locks to kiss the pure brow of infancy. He 
may fall, but she sits by the ruins, and when all others 
curse she blesses. The dungeon’s gloom and the felon’s 
fetters do not close up the fountain of her love, or drive 
her away from the dark night of his peril. Kneeling 
over the grave of her buried form, new hopes are resur- 
rected ; high purposes are born, and a grand strength 
rises from her coffined dust, to cheer and guide the liv- 
ing. When Eden’s flowers withered, one bud of promise 
and of hope remained to fruit the earth with gladness — 
beautiful and immortal as the tree of life, haunting, 
forevermore, the lonely wastes of memory — a mother’s 
holy and undying love. Earth holds no jewel, in all her 
many crowns, so pure and so precious. 

Wife ! In this sacred relation, she is the angel of home. 
The weary, aching head can rest on no holier shrine of 
earth than when pillowed on her trusting heart. One in 
interest, one in destiny, as in affection, she soothes him 
in his sorrows, counsels him in his trials, and triumphs 
in his success. Fallen and crushed under the burden of 
life, she lures him lovingly, with high, soft words of hope 
and courage. When the black night of misfortune grows 
darker every hour, she shines down upon his lonely way, 
strewn with failures, the thick, clustering stars of many 
glorious hopes. 

* * * “ They are in one barque on the sea of life, 

and though he may be unskillful or erring, and sink her 
treasures of hope and joy, yet, if she be true and holy, 


OF EGBERT HAYWOOD OSBORNE. 


91 


the barque will founder long before it goes darkly down, 
and she will disappear with the wreck, like an angel of 
the troubled waters, to rise again with a martyr’s wreath 
and a song of victory.” 

“His house she enters, there to be a light, 

Shining within when all without is night ; 

A guardian angel o’er his life presiding, 

Doubling his pleasures and his cares dividing; 

Winning him back, when mingling in the throng, 

From a vain world we love, alas, too long, 

To fireside happiness and hours of ease, 

Blest with that charm, the certainty to please, 

How oft her eyes read his ! her gentle mind 
To all his wishes, all his thoughts inclined ; 

Still subject — ever on the watch to borrow 
Mirth of his mirth, and sorrow of his sorrow.” 

It requires more than the pageantry of wealth, more 
than diamond jewelry, rustling silks, and softly shining 
satins, to fill up the ocean depths of a true woman’s 
heart. All the diamonds of Golconda, the gold of Ophir, 
the pearls that gleam “ under Omen’s green waters,” 
can never buy happiness at home. A life of noble devo- 
tion can alone compensate a true-minded wife for the 
undivided love of her entire being. She has a right to 
demand the fullest trust, and the truest confidence of her 
husband. Permit me to give you the opinion of one 
whose name is a household word in all homes and all 
lands. Its pure thoughts and elegant diction is a gem 
even in the crown of Washington Irving. Speaking of 
female influence and energy, he says: — 

“ I have noticed that a married man, falling into misfor- 
tune, is more apt to retrieve his situation in the world than 
a single one ; chiefly because his spirits are soothed and 
relieved by domestic endearments, and self-respect kept 
alive by finding that, although abroad be darkness and 
humiliation, yet there is still a little world of love at 


92 LIFE, LECTURES AND POETRY 

home, of which he is the monarch. Whereas, a single 
man is apt to run to waste and neglect, to fall to ruins 
like some deserted mansion, for want of inhabitants. I 
have often had occasion to mark the fortitude with 
which women sustain the most overwhelming reverse of 
fortune. Those disasters which break down the spirit of 
man, and prostrate him in the dust, seem to call forth 
all the energies of the softer sex, and give such intre- 
pidity and elevation to their character that at times it 
approaches to sublimity. 

“Nothing can be more touching than to behold a soft 
and tender female, who had been all weakness and de- 
pendence, and alive to every trivial roughness, while 
treading the prosperous path of life, suddenly rising in 
mental force to be the comforter and supporter of her 
husband under misfortune, abiding with unshrinking firm- 
ness the bitterest blast of adversity. As the vine, which 
has long twined its graceful foliage about the oak, and 
has been lifted by the sunshine, will, when the hardy 
plant is rived by the thunderbolt, cling around it with 
its caressing tendrils and bind up its shattered boughs ; 
so, too, it is beautifully ordained by Providence that 
woman, who is the ornament and dependent of man, in 
his happier hours, should be his stay and solace when 
smitten with dire and sudden calamity; winding herself 
into the rugged recesses of his nature, tenderly support- 
ing his drooping head, and binding up the broken heart. 

Such pure and uplifting sentiments endear us to life, 
and we feel that such unselfish and exalted devotion 
might almost 

“ Restore to earth lost Eden’s 

Faded bloom, and fling hope’s 
Halcyon halo o’er the wastes of life.” 

Sister ! How often has her gentle words won and wooed 
an erring brother from the haunts of folly, and led his 


OF EGBERT HAYWOOD OSBORNE. 


93 


wandering footsteps to the altar of religion, the paths of 
honor. Her pure kiss of love, upon his flushed cheek, 
follows him like a holy memory — a pleading angel; nor 
can he wholly free himself from the witchery of its 
touch. Go where he may, that sister’s image shines upon 
the troubled waters of his soul, glossing the soft and 
mellow lights of virtue, until its holy beauty charms him 
back to walk in wisdom’s ways. 

Daughter ! Her clinging fondness cleaves to man- 
hood’s broken wreck with unshaken trust and holy love, 
bathes the hot and careworn cheek with tears from the 
pure fountain of a pure heart, and soothes the toil of life 
with words of devotion and peace. The music of her 
tender tones chimes round the shadows of a fading life, 
and her gentle presence shines over a dying hour like a 
great glory from some shining world of rest. Mother, 
Wife, Sister, Daughter, Home, Heaven — words of kin- 
dred sweetness. Time and eternity, life and death, joy 
and sorrow, victory and defeat, are crowned with their 
influence, and throbbing with their glory. 

“ Oh ! if now, 

Woman would lift the noble wand she wore 
In paradise, so transcendent, and which still she wears, 
Half hidden, though not powerless, and again 
Wave its magic power o’er pilgrim man, 

How would she win him from apostasy, 

Lure back the world from its dim path of woe, 

And open a new Eden on our years! ” 

My honored countrywomen! May you realize your 
power and influence, and lead the youth of our sorrowful 
land to the mountain heights of usefulness and duty, and 
guide the full-freighted barque of their happiness from the 
sorrows and temptations of the life that now is, to the 
golden shores of that beautiful and blessed land where 
all is rest, and peace, and bliss ! 


94 


LIFE, LECTURES AND POETRY 


TO THE MEMORY OF MY SISTER. 

A requiem for the dead, a lonely dirge, 

A low and plaintive song; 

As the sad wailings of the ocean surge, 

Rolling its sullen tide along; 

Loved one of beauty, thou art dead ! 

And my poor heart is crushed, 

Thy form, thy footsteps, Oh ! whither have they 
fled! 

And thy voice, too, is hushed. 

Thy smile, that o’er my saddened spirit gleamed, 
With love’s own softened light ; 

Thine eye, of deepest blue, that gently beamed, 
A pure star ’mid sullen night: 

All, all, are shrouded — wrapped in gloom, 

The flowers you planted by the door, 

Lie withered o’er your lone and humble tomb, 
And thou wilt see them — never more. 

I wandered out one lonely Sabbath eve 
And fondly, sweetly traced, 

Each flower you loved, — and every leaf, 

Gleamed as a star, o’er memory’s waste; 

But there was no one sister with me then, 

My heart was lone and sad, 

And, often did I wonder when 

Thou wouldst come to make it glad. 

Our mother said you ne’er would come, 

No, never, never more, 

Ah! how sad is my boyhood home, 

My happy hours all o’er : 

She told me, too, we would meet in heaven, 

Away in the starry sky, 

Where the heart’s rich joys are never riven, 
Where the gentle never die. 


OF EGBERT HAYWOOD OSBORNE. 


95 


Gone to the grave, gone to the grave, 
Where the young and the gay must go, 
Where the monarch, and the slave 
Must meet in silence low; 

Gone from the restless throng, 

Its hopes, and fears, and strife, 

Gone from the smile, the jest, the song, 
Gone from the tearful path of life. 

Bolivar, Tenn., Dec., 1850. 


WE’LL MEET. 

I’m lonely; all within is sadness; 

I plead for the touch of a vanished hand ; 
She I loved in all my gladness, 

Grasps a harp in the better land ; 

I yearn for the look of a loving eye, 

Its glance is only seen on high. 

The truest friend, the dearest and the best, 
Whose smile in lovely beauty shone, 

Has gone to the wide realms of rest 
And left me sorrowful and lone. 

The enchantress of my day is dead, 

My life-light faded, my glory fled. 

Down through the golden clouds of even, 

In the hushed splendors of the night, 

On spirit wings from heaven, 

Thou wilt come to me as bright 
As in the blush of thy maiden pride, 
Breathing the love of a gentle bride. 

And thou wilt pray for me, 

That my cloud-crowned barque, 


96 


LIFE, LECTURES AND POETRY 


As it sweeps life’s wintry sea, 

May not go down, all dark, 

Bat anchor by thy side, once more, 

Far up on heaven’s glorious shore. 

We’ll meet again at the close of day, 

In life’s calm, departing hour, 

Where sorrow’s tears are washed away, 

And the flowers fade not in the bower. 
We’ll hear the plash of the oars free, 

In the holy calm of the crystal sea. 

I wait with joy life’s setting sun, 

The slumb’ring hush of the peaceful tomb, 
Life’s battle fought, life’s victory won, 
Beyond Time’s triumph and its gloom, 
With the holy dead at Jesus’ feet, 

Oh, blessed one, we’ll meet, we’ll meet. 

Bell’s Station, Tenn., Feb. 9, 1870. 


IN MEMORY OF WILLLIAM BARRY AND EGBERT SHEPPERD 
GROVE. 

In Memory of Win. Barry Grove. 

Born in Haywood County, Tenn., December 17, 1832, 
and fell at Shiloh, in advance of his company, “ Hay- 
wood Rifles,” in the second day’s fight, about 11 
o’clock a. m. 

To the Memory of Egbert Shepperd Grove. 

Of the “ Haywood Rangers;” born in Haywood County, 
Tenn. ; fell at Medon Station, on the 31st of August, 
1862, in his 19th year. These lines are affectionately 
inscribed to these two heroic brothers, by their cousin, 

Egbert H. Osborne. 


OF EGBERT HAYWOOD OSBORNE. 


97 


Spirit of immortal song, enthuse my anxious soul! 

Fill up the measure of my teeming brain ! 

Oh ! let thy beaming waters gently roll, 

Across my being’s drear and thirsty plain ! 

I sing a farewell song, a lonely strain, 

In memory of the dead, of heroes slain ! 

They heard alike War’s dread alarms, 

Each clad himself in warrior arms, 

And forth they went to the battle’s strife, 

And on freedom’s altar laid their noble life ! 

The eldest born, the glory of his father’s heart, 

First to the tented field, first to depart, 

Heard the tread of the vandal feet, 

And rushed his country’s foe to meet. 

Foremost in each weary march, each battling band 
With free, bold heart, he battled for his native land, 
Through summer’s heat and winter’s frozen rain, 
Encamped in the vernal vale or on the snow-clad plain, 
On Missouri’s soil, or on Kentucky’s “ bloody ground ” 
By duty’s post my gallant friend was ever found, 
Fearless of danger, tireless as the Alpine hunter, he 
Had pledged his strength, his life, to — liberty ! 

A warrior bold as death, yet gentle, true and mild, 
Loving his friends and kindred as a mother loves her 
child, 

Filial affection — fraternal love and power, 

Filled his brave heart to life’s last bloody hour, 

Oh ! what was life worth if freedom’s dream were blown ? 
Strand up on some barren isle alone — 

Fettered by servile chains, a tyrant’s coward slave — 
Goaded by despot’s minions to the lonely grave ! 

Death ! aye ! a quick and bloody death, 

Were better than to live within a tyrant’s breath ! 

A noble scion of a noble stock, 

He bared his bosom to the battle’s shock, 

Gazed o’er the long roll of his ancestral fame, 

7 


98 


LIFE, LECTURES AND POETRY 


And vowed to keep untarnished their fair name. 

A Sabbath day dawned o’er famed Shiloh, 

A name of power that brought us peace below ! 

Name of a city famed in sacred story, 

Name of Messiah, Savior, Lord of Glory ! 

Brightly beamed that Sabbath morn serene, 

Nature had donn’d her bridal sheen, 

The morning winds kissed bud and flower, 

And warbling songsters hailed the hour ! 

The battle’s smoke ingulfed the azure sky. 

The dying hero’s latest farewell sigh, 

Was lost ’mid the flash of burnished steel, 

Where the victors shout and the wounded reel, 

’Mid hissing shot and bursting shell, 

Ah ! many a gallant soldier fell ! 

Brave were the foe, yet what could valor do and might 
’Gainst freemen battling for the Right ! 

Slowly the conquered foemen left the field, 

While corpses strew’ d the ground and wounded heroes 
reeled, 

The riderless steed dashed on o’er the dead, 

Little reeked they, for their spirits had fled, 

Shout after shout broke o’er the sulphurous wave, 

And victory glistened on the ensigns of the brave. 

Night closed down upon the ensanguined scene, 

And the stars shone out with their silvery sheen. 

The dying and the dead together lay, 

The wounded yearned for the dawn of day, 

Morn came again — the embattled legions stood, 

’Mid plain, and field, and shaded wood. 

Waiting their General’s orders to obey, 

In blood, to win or lose the day ! 

Fast fell the blows, quick hissed the deadly shot, 

Bright flashed the steel o’er many a bloody lot ! 

The charger neighed o’er the battle breeze, 

And bursting shell blazed ’mid the forest trees, 


OF EGBERT HAYWOOD OSBORNE. 


99 


Then William rushed before his gallant boys, 

His bright face lit with the battle’s fiery joys, 

“ Follow me ! ye honor’d sons of hero sires, 

Strike for your altars and your fires, 

Strike till the last armed foe expires, 

God and your native land ! ” 

Fierce raged the battle’s howling storm 
Around the young warrior’s noble form, 

“ Charge to the gates of death your country’s foe, 

Nor leave a single man to tell the tale of woe ; 

Rend the chains ! on to the battle ! we must be free ! 
Or fall as heroes fell at old Thermopylae ! ” 

Alas! his forehead pierced by the envious ball, 

The smoke of battle was his funeral pall ; 

Life’s purple current gushed ghastly from his brow, 
He paid with life a patriot’s holy vow ! 

His requiem sung was his comrade’s shout, 

As they gazed on the foeman’s bloody rout ! 

No monumental urn, no marble bust, 

Gleams o’er the spot where sleeps his hero dust; 

For him affection sings this humble strain, 

To hallow his dust on Shiloh’s bloody plain. 

He lives in the hearts of his country’s brave, 

And loved one’s weep o’er his soldier grave; 

When Clio sings her anthem peal of memory and love, 
The muse will sing of William Barry Grove. 

And yet another ! insatiate archer, Death, 

Could’st thou not spare young Egbert’s breath? 

Tears had been rained o’er the elder brother, 

And must thou claim for thine another? 

Another just in the dewy morn of happy life, 

His boyhood’s bosom bounded for the strife; 

The war bugle’s notes swept o’er the land, 

And he hurried to join the “ Ranger’s ” band, 

With a free, bold heart, and a ready hand, 


100 


LIFE, LECTURES AND POETRY 


On the weary scout, or the picket’s post, 

He dreaded not the wily Northman’s host ; 

True as Damascus steel, gentle and brave, 

The spirit weeps above his boyhood’s grave. 

The order came; to the foe ! we speed, we speed ! 
With a shout he mounted his gallant steed ; 

One lingering look at nature’s light around, 

“ Now for the foe on Medon’s battle ground.” 
Proudly he faced his soldier’s weary lot, 

Nor shrank he away from the foeman’s 9hot ; 

Calmly he stood in his boyhood’s pride, 

A hero by the veteran soldier’s side, 

He stood on the soil that gave him birth; 

He stood hard by his boyhood’s hearth ; 

He would not flee from the forted foe. 

“ One parting shot before I go, 

Speed home to the spot, thou death-dealing shot, 

Ere I go the foeman shall know freedom is my lot.” 

He fell, and the soil of my native land, 

Held a wounded form of the “ Ranger’s ” band; 
Hour by hour his life ebbed away, 

Bringing him nearer the portals of day ; 

He died as he lived, nor dreaded the gloom 
Which suddenly curtained his warrior tomb. 

The last lingering hours of the gallant young Ranger 
Were soothed by the tears of the generous stranger; 
The ruins were gathered, all that remain, 

By his mother’s peaceful grave are lain, 

In the morn of the blest, 

May the hero brothers rest, 

Rest forever more. 


OF EGBERT HAYWOOD OSBORNE. 


101 


THE GENIUS OF MASONRY. 

Beloved Brethren: We have assembled, through 
Divine Providence, to celebrate the anniversary of St. 
John the Evangelist, one of the illustrious patron Saints 
of our ancient and honorable order. The son of Zebe- 
dee and Salome, the kinsman, friend, companion and 
beloved disciple of our Lord. Through the ages that 
have perished since the splendors of Patmos glowed 
before his enraptured vision, his name and memory — 
his purity j faithfulness and devotion, have been enshrined 
in the archives of our order, and cherished as the sainted 
of earth, typifying the heights to which humanity may 
ascend along the golden pathway of duty. Upon this 
occasion, and about this consecrated spot, we have 
gathered to renew our vows to God and humanity, and 
to strengthen the beautiful ties of social affection, and 
the golden bands of brotherly love, which should forever 
unite our hearts and characterize our actions toward one 
another. I trust, my beloved brethren, that you will 
kindly and generously exercise toward me that charity 
which should ever be extended to the imperfect flight of 
the untried wing. When you remember that it requires 
years of profound study and experience to comprehend 
the sublime and solemn mysteries of our ancient order, 
my own felt, confessed and known inexperience must 
prove my best apology, and the ground of your gener- 
ous sympathy and charity. Permit me to invite your 
attention to the beautiful spirit of benevolence as seen in 
the law of progressive development which pervades all 
the works of Divine Goodness. He who created all 
things by the word of his power, has wisely impressed 
upon the physical, intellectual and moral world — the im- 
perative law of progress and development, no less than 
the acknowledged laws of attraction and gravitation, or 
the centrifugal and centripetal forces that pervade the 


102 


LIFE, LECTURES AND POETRY 


natural world. The abrogation of this law of progres- 
sive development would stop the process of vegetation, 
and impoverish the resources of nature ; and death and 
ruin would ensue to the whole animal, mineral, and 
vegetable kingdoms. Nature bears no impressions of 
indolence or lawlessness in all her generous and bound- 
less operations for good. She is eminently, benev- 
olence, offering pleasure to the eye, harmony to l he 
ear, sustenance to the body, and food for the intel- 
lect. The study of her sublime mysteries, bearing 
everywhere the image of design, and uttering every- 
where the voices of mercy, affords endless sources of 
investigation to the contemplative mind. Upon her 
open volume we find mapped visions of wisdom and 
goodness, affording exquisite pleasure and abundant 
profit to man. The world about us is glowing with 
beauty, instinct with vitality, abounding in usefulness, 
replete with energy and crowned with the glory of end- 
less progress and development. The bud unfolds its 
leaves, exhales its fragrance and fruits into per- 
manent good, under the toying fondness of the gentle 
dew, and the caressing tenderness of the genial 
sun. Pausing not here, it roots itself in the bosom of 
the generous soil, or sows its own future harvest in many 
seed, with the free hand of charity, yielding for us the 
blade, the stalk and the full ripe corn in the ear. Nature, 
like the wondrous Bunyan, “ broadest growing,” goes 
on its fraternal mission of mercy, forever fruitful and 
beautiful, guided in the progressiveness of its shining 
career, by the overruling dictates of divine benevolence, 
seen in its own sublime evolvings for the good of man. 
Without this law of accumulation and development, the 
husbandman would meet no remunerative harvest to 
repay him for all his toil. A single seed, sown and cul- 
tured by the hand of careful industry, yields with gen- 
erous fullness supplies sufficient to satisfy the claims of 


OF EGBERT HAYWOOD OSBORNE. 


103 


nature. Thus is nature always unselfish, always charit- 
able. Procreation and development are forever linked 
in the unfolding treasures of the material world. The 
chrysalis is at first an unsightly worm. Under the beau- 
tiful evocations of nature, it is resurrected from its 
silken grave, and winged with many colored charms. 
The rude and unpolished piles of marble in the mountain 
quarry present nothing attractive to the eye — nothing 
to please our sense of the beautiful. The hand of genius 
grasps the chisel, and the spirit of harmony grows be- 
neath every touch of artistic skill, until the unshapely 
mass glows with beauty, and flashes before us the silent 
yet immortal representative of perished glory — the 
monumental witness of princely genius. The tiny acorn 
holds within its cup the growth of waving forests, the 
magnificence of floating navies, and the splendor of royal 
palaces. Nature is full of vitality, and under the law 
of development she yields it, not grudgingly, but freely 
and gladly, for man, in ever-repeated lessons of charity. 
The bud, the blossom and the fruit — these are the 
eloquent testimonies of nature — these are the offerings 
she lays at the feet of man, the tributes of affection, the 
tithes she brings from the overflowing store-house of her 
generous kindness. “ Bear ye one another’s burdens.” 
Nature is obedient to the voice of her maker. The tides 
of the ocean are ever ebbing and flowing, and along their 
billowy thoroughfares sweep the canvass-winged birds of 
commerce. The flames of electric wisdom flash along 
the wires of immortal thought, and the imprisoned 
majesty of steam sweeps through the wide fields of human 
toil, shouting and rejoicing on its mission of good. The 
freighted clouds are journeying along the shining path- 
way of heaven, sending their joyous showers upon earth, 
sky-messengers of the early and latter rain — seedtime 
and harvest. Thus does nature unfold her mission of 
charity throughout our beautiful world, giving to each his 


104 


LIFE, LECTURES AND POETRY 


portion in due season, and unfolding the benevolence of 
God. Such are the endless operations of progress — such 
the majesty of motion, action and development which per- 
vades the boundless universe. Turning our eyes to the 
heavens, garnitured with worlds of light, we behold the 
magnificent movements of the celestial bodies, empired 
upon their sentinel watch-towers, and mark the ceaseless 
evolutions and harmonious progress which proclaim the 
wisdom and glory of God — the handiwork of Omnipo- 
tence. Moving in the course decreed by the architect of 
the universe, the sun, the moon, and the stars, are yield- 
ing their testimony to the genius of benevolence, and the 
imperiousness of law. These laws are the emanations of 
infinite wisdom, and not the combinations of chance. 
Through all the intricate net-work of causation, we behold 
the harmony of law, and the wisdom of design. The law 
of development imparts strength and power to the physi- 
cal system. The educated muscles of the toil-worn 
laborer are ribbed about with gigantic strength, while the 
physical powers, enervated by that indolence and luxu- 
riousness which repudiates the law of development, sinks 
into hopeless weakness. The hot-house exotic, exiled from 
the silvery singing rains of the young year, the refresh- 
ing dew, the dancing winds and the life-inspiring sunlight, 
droops and withers, because denied the bounties of benev- 
olent nature, which unfold its hidden life and unlock its 
inner charms. Not alone in the wide realms of inanimate 
nature do we find the impressions of progressive develop- 
ment; it is the law of our intellect, governing mind with 
the imperious dictates of destiny. The child is ignorant of 
the sounds or characters of letters. Under the guidance 
of patient instruction, the developing mind comprehends 
these essential elements of success. As soon as the child 
understands the nature of letters he combines them into 
syllables, he molds them into words, he forms them into 
sentences, and from these unfolded combinations the 


OF EGBERT HAYWOOD OSBORNE. 


105 


mighty intellect sends out the sublime lessons of wisdom 
and power, to stir the chaos and torpidity of a dead world 
by the almightiness of free discussion. Toiling upward 
along the illumined trackway of progress and develop- 
ment, the gifted heir of genius feels the kindlings of 
inspiration, and shouts the anthem of victory over the 
crumbling walls of opposition. This law of development 
is a living witness of the law of labor. God hath united 
them ; to divorce them results in the dreary barrenness of 
ignorance and vice. The law of labor is the law of our 
being. “ Six days shalt thou labor ; ” the seventh alone 
is permitted us to rest. Six to labor, one to rest. This 
is divine law. Not alone in the physical and intellectual 
world do we recognize the imperativeness of progress and 
development. The moral lessons seen in divine govern- 
ment impress us with the truth of progressiveness. 
Throughout all the dispensations, and under all the glori- 
ous covenants of God, we mark the gradual unfoldings of 
his purposes. The promise of redemption was heard in 
Eden, long before its sublime fulfillment was manifested 
in Bethlehem of Judea. The types of promised mercy 
lit the gloom of perished ages, long ere the transfigured 
glory of incarnate deity blazed over the crowned glory of 
Mount Tabor. Promise yielded to types and shadows, 
dreams and visions ; these gave place to splendid pro- 
phecy, crowned with the fires of inspiration which lit the 
unborn ages of the far-off future with their glory, each 
prophecy burdened with heavenly intelligence, according 
to its day and mission. Brighter, and brighter, and 
brighter, until the perfect day shone out the progressive 
developments in the divine economy of grace. Star after 
star rose and shone along the moral darkness of our fallen 
world, until, in the fullness of time, the angel’s shout was 
heard over the manger, and a divine Christ appeared, the 
grand central revealment of all revelation. “ Grow in 
grace ” is the law of our spiritual nature. Justification, 


106 


LIFE, LECTURES AND POETRY 


sanctification, redemption ; these are the progressive foot- 
steps of the rejoicing soul. Add to your faith virtue, 
knowledge, temperance, patience, godliness, charity; 
these are the grand rounds in the ladder of duty. Babes, 
young men, fathers in Israel ; these are the developments 
of spiritual progress. The kingdoms of this world, the 
kingdoms of grace, the kingdoms of glory ; these rise 
one above another in endless progression, according to the 
purposes of heavenly wisdom. It would be no delusion 
of fancy, no senseless dream of imagination, to affirm 
that this law of development and progress is stamped 
upon the soul, from which it can never be effaced, even 
by the hand of death. Death is not death, but the res- 
urrection. The grave is but an illumined temple of 
apotheosis, into which the spirit retires to robe itself 
with light, and wing itself with power, ere it enters upon 
the boundless journey of progression, traveled by the 
sons of the morning, the angels of God. Loosed from 
the galling gyves of dull mortality, we shall “ see eye to 
eye, and know even as we are known.” Here disease 
and pain, sorrow and disappointment, often bar the por- 
tals of knowledge and close up the avenues of progress. 
There the boundless fruitions of eternity are evolved be- 
fore the redeemed soul, in visions of celestial glory, in 
endless and successive lessons of wisdom. Faith, instead 
of being lost amid the gorgeous visions of the heavenly 
city, will have all its mightiest powers evoked by the per- 
petually unfolding wonders of heaven. Could faith leap 
to the far boundaries of the soul’s ever-expanding might 
and majesty, then its mission, to ken the mysteries of 
divine mercy, would close in visions of rapture. Eternity 
with its countless wonders, will not be swept by a soli- 
tary glance of the soul’s enraptured eye. Everlasting 
ages roll round its boundless circle. When ages upon 
ages, outnumbering the ocean’s drops, and the earth’s 
fine dust grains, shall have swept past the crowned wor- 


OF EGBERT HAYWOOD OSBORNE. 


107 


shipers of heaven, still eternal mercy will be folding 
away the curtains of the far to come, and revealing 
brighter and brighter thrones and crowns. Amid the 
mapless dominions of the “ many mansions/’ the en- 
franchised spirit, freed from the shadows of time and 
sense, passion and folly, will find the grand realization of 
all its longing after immortality. Forever, and forever- 
more, will the deeper draughts of immortality expand the 
boundless progress of the soul, amid the opening scenes 
of eternity. The law of development applies to all save 
God, who impressed its necessity upon all the works of 
his hands, and ordained it as the sublime inheritance of 
men and angels. Perfection belongs to God. Progress 
and development, in nature, grace and glory, are wit- 
nesses of his wisdom and goodness, and contribute to 
swell the harmonies of praise to his name, on earth and 
in heaven. This law of progressiveness and endless de- 
velopment, the sublime necessity of drawing out and un- 
folding the endless resources of nature, is stamped with 
the genius of benevolence and the spirit of charity. 
Under divine dictation, the physical, intellectual and 
moral worlds are developing all their mysterious and 
immortal powers for the advancement of the human fam- 
ily. There is not an idle harp in heaven. The winds 
and the waves, harnessed by the power of genius, are 
toiling on their mission of good. 

“ The stars are ever singing, as they shine, 

The hand that made us is divine.” 

Nature, and revelation, and science, are all harmo- 
nious witnesses of infinite goodness, and are forever striv- 
ing to teach man the divine lesson of charity, in all its 
uplifting majesty, and purity, and power. The human 
soul, tossed upon the pitiless waves of time, that rage 
and break over stranded hopes, seeks in vain for peace 
outside the path of duty. Man seeks for fellowship, and 


108 


LIFE, LECTURES AND POETRY 


stretches out his hands imploringly for sympathy and 
brotherhood. Exiled from human companionship, he is a 
libel upon the God who made him, to love and be beloved. 
Not here can the soul find kindredship with immortality, 
or mercy from God, save as it unlocks the deathless re- 
sources of its devotion, and lives and toils for the glory 
of God and the good of man. Gloomed by the remorse- 
less selfishness of earth, hearing forever the low gibes of 
envy, jealousy and hate, making the schemes of sleepless 
and deathless ambition to rear its throne on lonely ruins, 
makes the heart grow sick of life, and sometimes we find 
ourselves, almost unconsciously, murmuring the wailing 
yet hopeful song of some sad heart — 

“ I am waiting, hoping, sighing 
For the blissful time to come, 

When my Father’s voice shall call me, 

To my everlasting home. 

For a while my feet must wander, 

O’er a dark and thorny way, 

Then through flowery paths* in heaven, 

In the light of endless day. 

Oh ! my lips are burning, parching, 

And my soul is thirsting here ; 

There I’ll stand beside the fountain, 

Drinking waters cool and clear. 

But a little while to labor, 

But a little while to wait, 

Then the Lord will bid the angels 
Open wide the pearly gate. 

And as through that gate I enter, 

I shall meet my Maker’s smile ; 

’Tis this thought that gives me comfort, 

Through life’s dreary little while.” 

Let us, my brethren, sit down reverently at the shrine 
of nature, and learn the uplifting lessons of goodness from 


OF EGBERT HAYWOOD OSBORNE. 


109 


the lips of a teacher speaking by divine authority. Every 
lesson of nature is replete with the developments of 
charity. The very pathway of the lightning, and the 
giant tread of storms, purifies the air we breathe, and 
drives back the haggard messengers of pestilence. Nature 
is ever generous to the wants of man. Her lessons are 
redolent with munificent offerings and sunny smiles. She 
turns away from none. The prince and the beggar are 
alike recipients of her gifts and blessings. The genial 
sunlight, the ambient air, the laughing streams, offer to 
all alike their priceless and beautiful benedictions. 
Wherever there is want, or pain, or suffering, nature, in 
imitation of her God, unlocks the storehouses of the 
mineral and vegetable kingdoms and lays her catholicon 
reverently at the feet of sorrowing man. Revelation in- 
vades the territory of the grave, and writes the lessons of 
immortal hope amid the shadows of expiring life; “this 
mortal shall put on immortality. ” Truly, “God is 
Love.” From nature, providence and grace, we see the 
exhibitions of his long suffering, kindness and tender 
mercy. From him, as from these messengers of his 
goodness, let us learn that the mission of manhood, in its 
truest and sublimest development, is to realize and unfold 
the holiest of all lessons, the fatherhood of God, and the 
brotherhood of man. Let the munificent deeds of our 
unostentatious charity be the gentle heralds of our kind- 
dredship with Deity, the silent witnesses that we have 
heard the generous evangel of nature, and are repeating 
her unselfish testimonies in deeds of enduring mercy, to 
the fallen, erring and sorrowful of earth. If revelation 
echoes the musical utterances of nature — if both, in their 
sublime development, victorious progressiveness, are con- 
tinually unfolding the harmonious lessons of universal 
good, and both contributing to swell the rejoicing anthem 
of praise to divine benevolence, and teach the great truth 
of faith in the operations of providence, and charity 


110 LIFE, LECTURES AND POETRY 

toward all mankind ; if angels are the ministering spirits 
of Almighty mercy, the viewless, yet ever-present guard- 
ians of earth’s sorrowing children; if nature and grace, 
the material and spiritual world about us, are all united in 
the glorious mission of good, surely, my beloved brethren, 
man, the masterpiece of all God’s wondrous works, should 
not permit the pitiless exactions of selfish greed to mar the 
career of usefulness, close the hand of charity, dry the tear 
of sympathy, seal the fount of feeling, hush the words of 
cheer and tenderness, and sink the glory of manhood in the 
midnight depths of a dreary misanthropy. As John the 
Evangelist is one of the illustrious patron Saints of our 
ancient and honorable order, we, who celebrate this day, 
should remember that one of the most touchingly beauti- 
ful sentiments that ever fell from his inspired lips, urged 
with affection and tenderness upon his brethren, was 
“ Little children, love one another.” It was but an echo of 
that love which summoned a redeemer from a throne of 
glory to a cross of shame. It was but the re-uttered dec- 
laration of the oft repeated lessons of that divinely com- 
missioned teacher who spake as never man spake, and to 
whom the storm-rocked waves and the thunder-freighted 
winds paid the adoring homage of submissive silence. 
Amid the desolations which gloomed the glory of Eden, 
and mantled its beauty in night, one star remained to 
light the wastes of earth — one flower to cast “ its sweet- 
ness on the desert air.” That star, that flower, was love, 
seen in the heavens and felt on the earth. From the 
might of his God-imparted strength, this Eden fountain, 
flow the healing waters of trust and devotion, friendship 
and truth. It embodies the redeeming sentiment of duty 
to God and man. It impresses the soul with the uplift- 
ing and purifying conviction that man owes fealty to 
more than his own selfish interest. It reads the soul a 
lesson from divine lips, that comes from heaven with all 
the force and majesty of a divine command: “No man 


OF EGBERT HAYWOOD OSBORNE. 


Ill 


Jiveth to himself l” Love is the golden cord which binds 
God to man, and man to God and his fellow-man. The 
absence of this divinely announced principle which allies 
the soul to the true and the beautiful, is the absolute 
presence of all those passions and lusts which so mar the 
harmonious proportions of our fallen nature. Rob the 
world of this great moral power, and man loses sight of 
all save the gratification of his own selfish desires. Pas- 
sions and appetite would revel over the melancholy ruins 
of humanity, and this beautiful world would soon become 
a shadow of hell, gloomed with tears, lamentations and 
misery. Self-interest would become the solitary motive 
to human action. While Masonry does not presume to 
take the place of Christianity, or deny the necessity of a 
divine sacrifice for sin, or rob God of the exalted worship 
due his glorious gift to a fallen world, it humbly offers 
fealty to the Father of all, and demands that the 
recipients of its distinguished honors, exemplify 
the genius of pure religion by unostentatious deeds 
of universal benevolence and the active exercise of all 
the sublime virtues of practical Christianity. “ Do 
unto others as you would have others do unto you,” 
bears the impress of a divine command, and its moral 
altitude is beyond the teachings of Seneca, the philoso- 
phy of Plato, the fancies of Godwin, or the lessons of 
Polybius and Pliny. This royal sentiment forms the 
genius of Masonry. Every true member of the mystic 
brotherhood is a living epistle of its moral purity and 
divine philosophy. To comfort the fallen, cheer the 
faint, strengthen the feeble and encourage the wavering; 
to feed the hungry, clothe the naked, visit the sick, 
bury the dead, educate the fatherless and the orphan, 
prompted by no hope of earthly reward, save that holy 
joy which sweetens every noble action and blesses every 
gentle deed of love, prompted by a lofty sense of duty — 
such I humbly believe is the spirit of Masonry. It 


112 LIFE, LECTURES AND POETRY 

needs no adulations from my poor pen ; no fulsome 
commendations from men. Its history is the history of 
our world. Its spirit was seen and felt in the earliest 
wants of a fallen race, and heard soothing the first 
troubled groan that shocked the ear of nature. Wher- 
ever the human heart has plead for brotherhood and pity, 
there it has stood like an angel of mercy, to speak out 
words of hope and peace. It has swept through fields 
of relentless persecution and malicious prejudice, royal 
denunciations and priestly maledictions, political com- 
binations and partisan trickery; foes within and enemies 
without, have attempted its overthrow; yet, over all, it 
has achieved the triumphs of enduring victory, and to- 
day its lovely charity and fraternal harmony, its moral 
convictions, are looking down on human strife with a 
pitying eye, and journeying far round this fallen, exiled 
orb, writing the lessons of brotherly love upon the lonely 
hearts of millions, “ in the world’s broad field of battle.” 
Its antiquity stretches back to the wants and sufferings 
of the human family. It has gazed calmly down upon 
the rise and fall of empires, and written its precepts of 
uplifting brotherhood upon the perished thrones of de- 
parted kings, and the splendid mausoleums of buried 
greatness. Its origin blends with the shadows of an- 
tiquity, and the future of our fallen world will grow 
brighter under the cheering light of its gentle and kindly 
spirit of charity. Unnumbered systems for the relief of 
human suffering have flashed their ephemeral lights along 
the paths of life, and passed away, 

“ The wonder of an hour.” 

Steady as the roll of ages, the garnered strength of 
Masonry has held its silent way, shining over the “ ills 
which flesh is heir to.” While Masonry does not pro- 
pose to open or close the gates of heaven to any human 
soul, while it does not presume to interfere with the re- 


OF EGBERT HAYWOOD OSBORNE. 


113 


ligious or political convictions of any man, or pilfer from 
him the blessings or obligations of social life, it humbly 
endeavors, by every effort of manliness and truth, to de- 
stroy the hurtful antagonisms of society; its grinding 
selfishness, and gloomy misanthropy, and withering 
bigotry, by binding man to his fellow-man in the strong- 
est ties of brotherly kindness. What the world needs, is 
practical benevolence, to break down the barriers which 
alienate the human family. Beautiful theories can never 
wipe the tears from the white cheek of widowed woe, or 
cheer the desolate heart of orphaned sorrow, “ strengthen 
the weak hands and confirm the feeble knees.” There is 
some pure gold shining in the dross of almost every 
nature — something good, and true, and beautiful, living 
in the deep of almost every soul. It only needs the 
spirit of kindness to summon it forth to life and send it 
out on its mission of goodness. Many a proud sensitive 
heart has been crushed by the vulgar gibes of fools. Try 
him , and if he tramples upon your confidence or betrays 
your trust, then, indeed, has he fallen below the standard 
of duty, and the full measure of manliness and honor. 
Before you let an immortal soul, a brother man, drift 
from the moorings of sympathy and love, “ try him.” 
Dig into his heart with a kindly hand, and you will find 
gems fit to flash in the tiara of kings. While we hear 
the beautiful theories of benevolence and humanity and 
feel the remorseless greed of selfish extortion and low- 
browed covetousness, we are bewildered with gloomy 
doubts as to the reality of the goodness of our race. 
These oppressive doubts of existing goodness in human 
nature have a tendency to dissolve our allegiance to man, 
and sinks the soul amid the friendless solitudes of misan- 
thropy — the bleak expatriation of the heart from the 
brotherhood of life. 

Masonry would gather up the broken links in the chain 
of humanity, and cement them by the power of an active, 

8 


114 


LIFE, LECTURES AND POETRY 


vitalized charity. Any organization whose principles will 
disrupt the elements of society by introducing divisions 
and strife can only tend to the accomplishment of evil. 
Any system which has the remotest tendency to heal the 
deadly breach of factions, and unite mankind for the de- 
velopment of good and the alienation of suffering, must 
of necessity possess 

“ Less of earth than heaven.” 

If I know anything of the genius of Masonry, from 
the humble stand-point which I occupy, the vestibule of 
its half-seen glory, it is purely unselfish in the disburse- 
ments of its charities. It pauses not to ask the partisan 
question, “is he a Mason? ” but that other higher and 
grander question, “ is he a brother man, and does he 
suffer.” The good Samaritan did not pause to inquire 
whether or not the wounded, fallen sufferer by the way- 
side was of his faith and order. It was enough for this 
friend of humanity to know that this poor stranger had 
fallen among thieves, was wounded, and needed the 
gentle offices of friendship. When ghastly wounds are 
bleeding, and the wail of anguish rushing through white 
lips of agony, it is no time to discuss the question of 
orthodoxy or heterodoxy — who he is or what he is. Be- 
fore we settle those vexed questions which divide a world 
the poor sufferer may die. An officer in the Federal 
army — Forty-second Ohio Infantry — was wounded, 
bleeding, penniless, homeless, exposed to the blasts of 
winter ; death stood knocking at the portals of his heart. 
A rebel soldier — of the First Regiment Mississippi Cav- 
alry, commanded by the gallant Pinson — procured for 
the wounded man a home, a physician, and all the com- 
forts he needed. When sufficiently well to make the 
journey, this rebel soldier procured a conveyance and 
sent the Federal officer to his command, then stationed 
at Bolivar, Tennessee. Months after this simple occur- 


OF EGBERT HAYWOOD OSBORNE. 


115 


rence, the Federal army was desolating North Mississippi, 
but the humble cabin of the rebel soldier was too sacred 
for their touch. 

“ Blessed are the merciful, for they 
Shall obtain mercy! ” 

The tattooed New Zealander, the tawny Arab, the red 
warrior, the pale European, or the jet black African, 
claim alike the sympathies and kindly offices of their 
fellow-man. 

Associated effort for deeds of benevolence is invested 
with a moral power which solitary individuality, however 
munificent, can never accomplish. A divine Christ did 
not see proper to walk in the world he made alone. The 
cherubic legions in his Father’s home 

“ Crowned him Lord of all,” 

and here, amid the grief-haunted aisles of earth, he sum- 
moned from the marts of life twelve immortal names, 
and granted to them his companionship and presence. 
Sand grains form the mountain’s grandeur — drops the 
ocean’s vastness. A solitary wisp of straw may be broken 
by an infant hand — woven together it bids defiance to 
the giant’s strength. Never was there an era so auspi- 
cious for the heavenly mission of charity, and the incul- 
cation of brotherly love, as the present. The entire 
social, moral and political frame-work of our govern- 
ment seems crowded with anarchy, demoralization and 
division. Madness reigns in the councils of the nation, 
where once were felt the eloquence of Clay, the majesty 
of Webster, and the grandeur of Calhoun. Never were 
the elements of public sentiment so fiercely disrupted, 
and so widely antagonistic. The gaunt spectres of 
starvation, the dreary skeletons of want, the gibing 
ghouls of famine, stalk gloomily amid the wide wasting 
shadows of financial ruin and dread uncertainty which 


116 LIFE, LECTURES AND POETRY 

broods like some avenging Nemesis along the bloody 
wake of civil war. Old age and helpless infancy are 
pleading for bread. Widows and fatherless children are 
lifting up their hands imploringly for help. This is in- 
deed a time for unfurling the banners of peace and 
humanity. This is the time for our order to unfold its 
silent power, its sublime spirit, by the practical exhibi- 
tions of universal good ; by submission to the dispensa- 
tions of providence; by the alienation of human suffer- 
ing; by calming the storm of sectional faction; by 
restoring public confidence in human good ; by uniting 
man to his fellow-man; by strengthening the golden ties 
of faith in brotherly love, and exalted trust in human 
integrity. The foundations of society are almost de- 
stroyed. Faith in God and confidence in man topple to 
their fall throughout the nation, scarred by the light- 
ning of infidelity. Let every intellect become a throne 
of justice, and every heart a fountain of charity, striving 

“ To restore to earth lost Eden's 
Faded bloom, and fling hope’s 
Halcyon halo o’er the wastes of life.” 

Let not the curse of Meroz cleave to any heart. “We 
live in deeds, not years.” 

“ It is a little thing to give a cup of water, 

Yet its draught of cool refreshment, 

Drained by fevered lips, will give a shock 
Of pleasure to the frame, 

More exquisite than when nectar 
Flowed through paradise. 

It is a little thing to speak a phrase 
Of common comfort, which, by daily use, 

Has almost lost its sense of sweetness ; 

Yet, on the ear of him who thought to die 
Unwept, ’twill fall like choicest music ; 

Relax the knotted hand, to know the 
Bonds of fellowship again. And pour 
O’er the dying ear the benison of friends.” 


OF EGBERT HAYWOOD OSBORNE. 


117 


The genius of Masonry is rooted in and grounded 
upon the Bible. This wondrous book is the great light 
of Masonry. Amid the roll of ages, the rush of genera- 
tions, the rise and fall of empires, this wonderful book 
pours the tide of its glory, the light of its own orbed 
splendor, over the destinies of men and the fate of 
nations. Its jurisprudence tempers the genius of justice 
with the gentle spirit of mercy, and sanctifies the holiest 
endearments of social life with the power of •truth and 
love. It consecrates the marriage vow with the sancti- 
ties of trust and devotion, and gives to parental tender- 
ness, filial love, and fraternal affection, deeper sentiments 
of kindliness and tenderness. It takes woman by the 
hand and leads her from the servitude and suffering im- 
posed by superstition and idolatry, up to the shining 
circle of social and religious duty, as man’s “ help- 
meet” — not his cowering slave. It penetrates the 
conscience, softens the heart, and convinces the reason, 
by arguments and lessons as solemn as the judgment, as 
true as death, and as vast as eternity. It leads the 
doubting to the shrine of truth, and calls the erring to 
the throne of mercy. Its promises arch the life that now 
is, and stretches away amid the endless verities of Eter- 
nity. It unfolds the only system of theology worthy 
of human faith, and gives the only system of ethics 
worthy of human respect. Its historic rolls commenced 
with the dawn of creation, and the songs of its triumph 
echo amid the thrones and hierarchies of heaven. The 
evangelum of its glory is the prologue of earth, the 
epilogue of heaven. God is its author, salvation its 
theme, and man the recipient of its favor and mercy. 
Its testimony is unfolded by precept, and impressed by 
example. It reveals to every wanderer upon earth the 
path of duty, and shows to every tempted soul a crown 
of life, an immortality of bliss, when the sun of earthly 
being shall set to rise and shine on other worlds. Before 


118 LIFE, LECTURES AND POETRY 

its divine truth the rejoicing heathen casts his idols to 
the moles and bats, and adds his heart’s high homage to 
the worshipers of earth and heaven. A single precept 
from its divine teachings would image the peace and 
purity of heaven upon the dark and bloody brow of 
earth: “ Thou shall love the Lord thy God , with all thy 
heart , soul , mind and strength , and thy neighbor as thy- 
self .” The laws of Solon and Lycurgus, the philosophy 
of PolybiiK and Pliny, the ethics of Seneca and the 
dreams of Socrates, the homilies of men, the poetry and 
eloquence of earth, offer no such rule of moral action — 
at once simple, merciful and just. The moral landscape 
which this wonderful book unrolls before the entranced 
and delighted gaze of men, surpasses the dreams of 
poesy, the genius of art, the imagination of men or the 
conception of angels. “ God only knows the love of 
God” Charity and forgiveness are the great lessons 
of its divine teachings — love to God and man the divine 
power of its testimony. Never was this heavenly volume 
forged in the teeming brain of erring man. Alone it 
has swept through fields of blood and oceans of flame. 
Its martyred worshipers have sent their victorious shout 
sounding down through the world’s ages, to cheer the 
doubting and strengthen the weak. Its songs of peace- 
ful immortality have been hymned over the graves of the 
dead of life, and the jubilee of its glory is heard in 
heaven to-day. Predicated upon such exalted principles, 
Masonry will survive the opposition of earth, and send 
out its messages of mercy, and its deeds of charity, to 
brighten the homes and hearts of men. 

“ God only is great , and generous , and faithful .” 
The world seems at this time to be destitute of many 
truly great men. There are many twinkling stars, but 
no orbed suns shining away the blackness of darkness 
which glooms the nation’s intellect and the nation’s 
heart. We have conspicuous characters, great from the 


OF EGBERT HAYWOOD OSBORNE. 


119 


power of positiou, the dignity of place — not great from 
that God-given life, divinely implanted, once in a cen- 
tury, and whose vitalized almightiness imparts its sublime 
forces to millions, making earth rejoice that a princely 
heart throbs lovingly, and a kingly genius shakes the 
throned tyrants and breaks the fetters of despotism. 
Kevolutions dismantle empires and call angels from the 
valleys of obscurity, to guide the tottering feet of 
nations to the development of the grandest good. 
Many a God-like soul was born amid the throes of the 
storm, and the howling of the hurricane. The wing of 
the tempest, the chariot of the cloud, lit by the light- 
ning and rocked by the thunder, bore the new-born 
wonder to the prophet’s throne. Marshaling the forces 
of truth and charity, he became the champion of out- 
raged humanity — a blessing and a glory in the whole 
earth. Such a leader was Moses — such was Washing- 
ton. Both were great for both were good. Both were 
prophets and their prophecies are fulfilling to-day. 
Both were champions of a people yearning to be free. 
True greatness is not the result of revolutions. Cir- 
cumstances may make men conspicuous, famous ; develop 
power, creating nothing. Whom God makes great will 
be great, though earth and hell oppose. Books unfold 
systems, impart ideas, but the treasured lore of earth 
cannot pour the fires of genius along the paths of mindless 
mediocrity, or illume the sanctuary of the heart with the 
beamings of heavenly charity. True greatness is the God- 
life of our immortality, the sanctifier of our humanity, the 
glory of our manhood. Wealth, genius and learning 
invest man with power — they do not crown the soul 
with the moral glories and divine sympathies which flow 
from charity. True greatness is not seen in the triumphs 
of art, the achievements of science, or the wonders of 
intellectual progress in the wide fields of learning. It 
strips itself of the littleness of envy, the meanness of 


120 


LIFE, LECTURES AND POETRY 


jealousy and the greed of selfishness. The truly great 
are not alone the gifted sons of genius, whose majestic 
thoughts gleam and glow amid the accumulated treasures 
of wisdom; but their hearts and hands and brains are 
co-workers in the whitening harvest fields of humanity. 
A heart to feel, a brain to plan, an arm to execute, an 
eye to weep, a voice to cheer, a hand to lift up. He has 
heard God’s qrder to the prophet, “ Comfort ye my 
people.” He feels the holy joy of a divinely uttered 
truth stirring the depths of his soul with an angel’s 
wand, and he writes that truth upon his unrolled banner: 
“ No man liveth to himself.” 

He is bound to earth’s vast brotherhood by the bonds 
of sympathy and charity. Walking humbly in the 
shadow of a divine Christ, cleaving to his seamless robe, 
he would mirror the images of benevolence and goodness 
in deeds of kindness that will live when the harps of 
earth are broken, to the voice of its eloquence hushed, 
and the songs of its triumph lost amid the lethean waters 
of oblivion. Earth holds no royalty equal to the princely 
sonship of the redeemed soul ; no inheritance like the 
thrones and crowns of heaven ; no greatness like the God- 
imparted life of charity. Such as these, though walking 
through the mists of earth to the sepulchers of the dead, 
are “ equal unto angels.” The truly great are truly 
good. Greatness and goodness are twin-born angels. 
Their goodness is felt in the heart, and heard in the 
storm. It moves throughout the troubled elements of 
society gently as the dew on drooping flowers, soft 
as moonlight over midnight waters. Breaking away 
from the remorseless despotism of selfishness, he seeks 
companionship with the afflicted of earth, and writes 
lessons of his immortal fame upon the hearts of thou- 
sands on our fallen planet, whose miseries he has 
healed, whose wounds he has cured, whose wants he 
has relieved, whose paths he has brightened. Heaven 


OF EGBERT HAYWOOD OSBORNE. 


121 


owns him great; men call him blessed and bleeding 
hearts rejoice to hear the music of his voice; human- 
ity’s brother, God’s redeemed son, heaven’s princely 
heir. Christianity gathers all her sublime reources, 
all her splendid powers, all her divine energies, and 
concentrates them all in one great glory whose mortal 
exaltation makes the humblest great, the poorest rich. 
That orbed splendor is the crown of Calvary, the light 
of the third morn, the glory of earth, the spirit of true 
greatness, charity. Without it the deductions of reason 
are vain, the triumphs of faith are trifling. Without it 
greatness is a delusion, and fame the dream of fools. 
Without it learning is folly, and the eloquence of earth 
“ a sounding brass and a tinkling cymbal.” 

To do good, my beloved brethren, is to be truly great. 
Without charity, comprehending the widest and highest 
good of humanity everywhere, socially, intellectually, 
morally, all man’s boasted claims to greatness is worse 
than folly ; all his protestations of religion a wretched 
caricature. Whatever definition others may give of true 
greatness I know not and care not; in my humble judg- 
ment it consists in true goodness — that goodness which 
accomplishes the largest amount of enduring good for the 
inhabitants of earth, in ennobling, purifying, cultivating 
and unfolding the grandest powers of fallen man. The 
son of the Virgin Mother is an illustrious example of 
true greatness, viewing him in the vesture of sinless hu- 
manity, as a representative man ; beholding the minis- 
trations of benevolence and hearing the lessons of broth- 
erly love and charity which fell like divine commands 
from his lips. As teacher, Socrates sinks into the dead 
sea of obscurity and nothingness, when compared to the 
carpenter’s son, the representative of perfected"' man- 
hood. He journeyed from the shadows of a manger to 
the triumphs of a throne ; brightened the path he traveled 
with evidences of love and power, and shouted far along 


122 


LIFE, LECTURES AND POETRY 


the pathway of his ascending glory to millions below 
him, “ follow me!” To be truly great is to repeat the 
moral lessons of an omnipotent Christ in the ever unfold- 
ing glories of divine charity. The philanthropy of 
Howard was the reflection of that love whose birthplace 
was a manger, whose brightest crown of glory was a 
crown of thorns, whose purest lessons of mercy and for- 
giveness were breathed in prayers and wept in tears, and 
whose sublimest achievements of divine wonder and 
love were written with his own blood upon Calvary. 
There is no cenotaph for greatness — no epitaph was 
ever written over its sepulchered ashes. It was never 
buried. It never died. The death of Christ was 
the prologue of his divine triumphs, hymned amid 
the adoring hierarchies of eternity. True greatness 
can never die. It has been martyred, but “ the 
blood of the martyrs became the seed of the Church .’ * 
You may burn it, yet, like the fabled Phoenix, it will as- 
cend from its ashes and transform its funeral pile into a 
throne of power. Washington was great. His memory 
will live a household glory forever and forever. Paul 
was great — a moral hero, whose consecrated powers 
triumphed alone in the might and majesty of the Cross, 
and whose proudest distinction was the utterance of that 
truth destined yet to revolutionize the world, (f For me 
to live is Christ.” 

Moses was great, and he voluntarily abnegated the 
riches of a kingdom, the honors of a Prince and the 
pleasures of a court, “ choosing rather to suffer affliction 
with the people of God than to enjoy the pleasures of 
sin for a season.” Job was great, and his greatness was 
seen in his sublime submission to Divine Providence, and 
his mighty adherence to duty amid the tombs of his 
kindred, the wreck of fortune, and the ravages of disease. 
Over all his gathering woes he shouted 

“ Though thou slay me, yet will 
I cleave unto thee! ” 


OF EGBERT HAYWOOD OSBORNE. 


123 


Abraham was great. His moral grandeur flashed down 
upon the faithless world, from the summit of Mt. Moriah, 
and was seen in his unfaltering adherence to principle, 
his moveless trust in God. Above the severed thongs 
which had bound his only and beloved son, he sent his 
grateful triumphs “ sounding down through ages,” a joy 
and a glory forever and forever. The truly great are 
purely unselfish. Christianity is unselfish. Christ was, 
and is, and ever more will be unselfish. Nature is unsel- 
fish. To be a Christian is to feel the divine enthusiasm of 
thegenerous thought filling up the soul. “No man livethto 
himself . ” He prayeth best who loveth most. Man, prim- 
eval, was the image of God. In the prospective restitution 
of all things contemplated by the moral power of the Gos- 
pel, when love will triumph over hate, and truth rehearse 
her victories over a regenerated world, it will be found that 
the sublimest revealments of moral greatness consisted in 
the unostentatious deeds of heavenly benevolence, the sil- 
ent displays of brotherly love, sown broadcast amid the 
suffering and sorrowful of earth. The more we love the 
more we resemble God, for God is love, and love is God, 
and this semblance to the divine, this near approach to 
the all good, is seen, not in the possession of wealth, 
genius, learning, but in bearing the lost image of God, 
blotted out by sin, but restored to earth through the 
merits of a Divine Day’s man. The silent and un- 
uttered testimony of a genial gentleness, a tearful 
charity, welling up in the soul known widest among the 
angel watchers, is a source of more enduring peace than 
the stormy applause of a babbling world. To feel that 
in the grand battle of life, though we have won no gar- 
lands of fame, and our names are unknown beyond the 
smoke of our cabin door, we have wiped away the tears 
from the white cheek of sorrow, and breathed in lonely 
hearts high words of inspiring hope and courage. Angels 
come to brighten our obscurity with prophesies of a glo- 


124 LIFE, LECTURES AND POETRY 

rious rest, and whisper to us words born out of God’s 
loving heart, high and hopeful, “ Well done, thou good 
and faithful servant.” 

This true greatness, this power to do good, is born of 
God. It is a part of God, dwelling in the soul like an 
angel of mercy, forever and forevermore! Brethren, 
beloved, let us go forth on our mission of mercy, unfold- 
ing bv word aud deed the sublime lessons of faith and 
charity. When summoned by the Grand Master of the 
Universe to appear in the Heavenly Lodge, may ,we 
look back upon a life spent in the service of God and 
man, and enter upon the rewards of eternity peacefully 
and triumphantly. Now let us pray — 

“ My Father! heavenly father, to whom sole 
I lift my eye in trouble or in joy, 

Thou who hast led me erst a wayward child, 

And wayward still, from weakness not from choice, 

And brought me thus far on my journey’s way 
Grant in the years to come I still may prove 
Obedient to the imperial voice within; 

Voice of that soul which thou hast given, which bids 
Still to go forward, resting not till death. 

Oh! make me strong, that so when sorrows come, 

When loved ones die and leave me, and the day 
Grows dark about me, and the sunshine comes 
To the heart no more, and the spirit’s life seems gone 
With the love that fed it, I may still march on, 

Content to do thy work and heed no more 
Whether the clarion voice of fame do come 
In life, or after death, or not at all. 

Oh, be it mine at life’s blest close to stand, 

Scarred though it be with sorrows, still erect, 

In harness to the last, raising my hands 
On the won battle-field aloft to thee, 

And with a calm joy, yielding up my soul, 

Scourged, chastened, purified, and hearing now 
The inner voices chanting victory. 

Like some old warrior chief on his last field, 

Dying, with upturned face, and in his ears 
An army’s songs of triumph — heedless all. 

If so be the stern fight is won at last, 

And bis flag flies victorious still in death! 


OF EGBERT HAYWOOD OSBORNE. 


125 


“ THE WIZARD OF THE SADDLE.” 

Through murky fen and dreary marge, 
O’er rugged paths and lonely plain, 

The veteran chieftain shouts his charge, 
And conquering swept away again. 

I watch the war-scarred Wizard’s form 
Rise o’er the battle’s fiercest storm, 

And hear his rallying cry ring out 
Above his warrior legions’ shout. 

The foeman slumbering in his lair 
Awakes to find the Wizard there, 

Hears the dread name of Forrest spoken 
And feels the charm of valor broken. 

By the gently whispering stream 
Where moonbeams softly gleam, 

’Mid the wooded forests genial shade 
By the mossy spring in the vernal glade, 

I see a meteor sweeping by 
And I know my country’s foe must die, 
Where’er I stray I hear that name, 
Wreathed with blessings, linked with fame. 

O’er hill and plain, by lake or river, 

He goes to conquer and deliver, 

The despot’s hireling hounds will feel 
The red avenger’s flashing steel. 

Mighty of arms and brave of soul 
His name gleams out on war’s red roll, 

His laureled victories mapped in blood, 

His mightiest deeds his country’s good. 

Gifts on freedom’s altar laid 
Gifts by a grateful country paid, 


126 


LIFE, LECTURES AND POETRY 


In the rich courage of affection’s mint 
Pure and deep, unselfish, without stint. 

The homage of our heart is freely given 
To one such favored child of heaven, 

On the bright roll of martial story 
When warrior names are proudly urned ’mid 
archives of undying glory. 

Forrest’s name will brightest burn 
Shrined in memory’s holiest urn, 

Born with no titled deeds of fame 
Girt with no proud ancestral name. 

From the thick-peopled paths of old obscurity 
He sprang the honored champion of the free, 
The patriot friend of liberty, 

Heading the gray line’s iron charge 
In the deep of the battle’s burning marge. 

When bullets rain and falchions flash 
I gaze on his war steed’s bloody dash, 

The wizard man sweeps through the rout 
To the dread music of his legions’ shout. 

He comes, the wizard horseman comes ! 
Defender of our country’s homes ! 

Friend of the free, foeman of the slave, 

He comes to rend our chains and save. 

Spirit of power girt his warrior form, 

Guide and shield amid the storm, 

May victory flash o’er his gathering ranks, 
’Mid the glad music of his country’s thanks. 

May his Spartan soul inspire 
The craven heart with patriot fire, 

Which blazed at old Thermopylae 
Promethean fires of liberty. 


OF EGBERT HAYWOOD OSBORNE. 


127 


Do and dare, suffer and be strong; 

Strike for the right, crush down the wrong; 
Tyrants will tumble when they see 
The gathering armies of the free, 

Shouting a soldier’s death or liberty, 

Our Spartan chief and victory I 

Bolivar, Tenn., Wednesday, 28th Dec., 1864. 


TO CYNTHIA, NO. 1. 

The darkest cloud, they say, 

Hath still a silver lining; 

Night is followed by the day, 

And every night the stars are shining, 

The gloomiest desert hath a spring 
That sparkles at the wanderer’s feet; 

The homeliest birds the sweetest sing, 
And every bitter hath its sweet. 

Israel’s royal monarch sung 

His sweetest strains in Bacca’s vale 

When the spirit’s love is rung. 

There is an ear to hear the tale. 

Flowers yield their best perfume 
When crushed beneath our tread ; 

Light shines eternal o’er the tomb, 

We only live when we are dead. 


“SOME THINGS I DON’T LIKE TO SEE.” 

I don’t like to see a man spend all his money 
Before he owns a single dollar. 

I don’t like to see a preacher in the pulpit funny, 
It makes the very Devil holler , 


128 LIFE, LECTURES AND POETRY 

I don’t like to see an ugly girl, 

Trying to paint herself till she gets pretty, 
Wearing some dead body’s curl 

And pulling the gray hairs from the jetty. 

I don’t like to see the Airish people, 

That is the people who put on airs, 

Hold their heads as high as a steeple 
Above the world and its affairs ! 

I don’t like to see a moneyed aristocracy, 

A people proud because they are rich, 
Scorning at us poor democracy 

As though we were carrion in the ditch. 

I don't like to see family pride 

Afraid to go back a generation or two, 

Fearing lest perchance the stride 

Would carry them farther than it ought to do; 
Send them away back to a cobbler’s stand 
Or amid the graves where their fathers sleep 
As honest an old cobbler as was in the land 
Who over their follies if living would weep. 

November, 1865. 


A LECTURE BY EGBERT H. OSBORNE, GRAND CHAPLAIN 
OF THE GRAND DIVISION OF THE SONS OF TEMPERANCE 
FOR THE STATE OF TENNESSEE. 

Dedication. 

This waif of the heart, this leaf from the soul, I dedi- 
cate to my beloved wife, the best and truest friend I ever 
had on earth. My companion, my counselor, in joy and 
sorrow, in triumph or defeat — the same peaceful smile, 
the same brave words, the same beautiful piety, the 
same faithful prayers, have shone upon my pathway, 
cheered my heart and strengthened all my best and purest 


OF EGBERT HAYWOOD OSBORNE. 


129 


desires. Her name will blend with the name of Jesus, in 
the song of redemption. E. H. O. 

Introductory. 

The subject of Temperance Reform involves so many 
solemn and important interests, that it will not become 
a matter of surprise to any reflecting mind that I have 
presumed to discuss its claims upon the “ Patriot, the 
Philanthropist and the Christian.’ ’ The “ evils of strong 
drink” are so widespread and demoralizing, that it is a 
source of astonishment that so many good men seem to be 
indifferent to the fearful ravages of Intemperance. The 
subject is not unworthy of the investigation of the states- 
man, or the prayers of the Christian. Surely, no heart 
which throbs with sentiments of philanthropy is insen- 
sible to the evils of strong drink, and the urgent claims 
of Temperance. I confess my own inability to do even 
a semblance of justice to the subject. I have sketched 
a rude and hurried outline of the ghastly theme; I have 
written what I feel — written hurriedly and at odd times — 
amid the pressure of business, surrounded by sickness in 
my family — writing always in the sick room, amid the 
noise and bustle of little children ; written with no foolish 
expectation that I would gather any wreaths of immor- 
tality from this little work. My heart is troubled with 
no idle dream of fame, no childish aspiring to be known 
beyond the smoke of my humble home. Caring not for 
the ephemeral applause of the world, I send out these 
unostentatious leaves with a beautiful hope that they 
may heal some tempted soul, lift up some erring brother 
sufferer, and cheer some brave heart in life’s grand 
battle. E. H. O. 

The evils of strong drink and the claims of Temper- 
ance Reform upon the Patriot, the Philanthropist and the 
Christian. The theme is as old as a “thrice told tale 
breathed in the ear of a dull and drowsy man,” having 


130 


LIFE, LECTURES AND POETRY 


few if any virgin recesses that have not been invaded by 
the pen of the statesman and the tongue of the orator, 
or the harp of the poet. I follow reverently in the 
wake of cultured genius, and walk with trembling steps 
along the golden pathway of the immortal dead. The 
subject may be barren of novelty ; it is not devoid of in- 
terest or destitute of thought. It presses itself upon 
our deepest conviction and permeates our holiest affec- 
tions-, and garlands our fondest and brightest memories. 
Its magnitude demands our investigation, its vast and 
solemn interests spurn the flowers of rhetoric, the 
dreams of poesy, the sickly exquisitisms of vapid dec- 
lamation. Standing up before us in the ghastliness of 
its naked woe it weeps and pleads from the poorhouses, 
jails, penitentiaries and asylums of our sorrowful land in 
tones of sorrow and despair. Its eloquence is the elo- 
quence of tears; its songs the cries of despairing hearts. 
The subject will be heard. We cannot close our eyes to 
its ago>ny, or shut our ears to its wailing woe. It howls 
its desolate dirge in the palace, and wails its funeral re- 
quiem in the cabin. It reels along our streets, shouts in 
the halls of revelry, and rolls reeking, from the sinks 
and dens of blasphemy and debauchery, a black, hag- 
gard curse over all our guilty, sorrowful land. Men con- 
template the gigantic horror with bewildered eyes ; and 
women, weeping and sorrowful, sit down amid the ruins 
of their earth-idols, the darkness of lonely homes, to 
wring their white hands in terror and breathe out their 
agony in prayer. The gilded saloon opens its gates of 
death hard by the doors of Zion, and the shouts of 
drunken revelers float down the carpeted aisles and blend 
with the solemn psalm of the worshipers. The halls of 
legislation, the Senate chamber, the citadels of justice, 
the Sanctuary of Religion, the palace of the affluent and 
the cabins of the poor, the arteries of commerce, reel 
under the dread curse and reek with the boundless evil. 


Of EGBERT HAYWOOD OSBORNE. lBt 

It is the skeleton in almost every closet, the dark shadow 
on almost every roof-tree — the curse of humanity, and 
a libel upon the truth of revelation. 

“Righteousness exalteth a nation; and sin is a reproach to 
any people.” 

The curse of Intemperance is the reproach of civiliza- 
tion. The savage wanders amid the shrines of super- 
stition and idolatry, scoffs at the pleading missionary of 
Christianity, while the freighted barque which bears the 
Word of Life, bears the curse of strong drink to the 
shores of heathen lands. The judge pronounces sen- 
tence of death upon the trembling prisoner who bathed 
his hands in his brother’s blood or murdered the wife of 
his bosom while maddened by strong drink; and ere the 
echo of the dread sentence dies away in the court room, 
he “ places an enemy in his mouth to steal away his 
senses.” The physician stands gloomily by the bedside 
of his dying patient, hears the wild wail of his delirium, 
the broken, fiery fragments of wandering, wrecked and 
blasted thought, listens to the weird pictures of a crazed 
brain, sees the barque of his immortality drifting darkly 
down to ruin, wrecked upon this fire-crowned rock of 
woe — dying with delirium tremens — leaving to his 
broken-hearted wife and children the heritage of a blighted 
life, the memory of burning curses and bitter blows — 
sees his patient dying from strong drink, and turns away 
from the ghastly portraiture of woe to drown the memory 
of the sorrowful scene in the oblivious flash of flowing 
wine. The lawyer pleads earnestly and eloquently for 
his unfortunate client, over whom hangs the fiery sword 
of justice ; but he cannot plead drunkenness as an exten- 
uation of the bloody crime. He turns away, sorrowful 
and sad, from the altars of justice, knowing that the of- 
fense was the result of strong drink, and goes himself to . 
jest and sing amid the halls of revelry, forgetful that 


132 LIFE, LECTURES AND POETRY 

genius pales and learning dies under this terrible and 
merciless scourge of our race. 

Public opinion has madly sanctified the sparkling glass 
and wreathed the ruby wine with serene respectability. 
Poetry and eloquence, genius and learning, taste and re- 
finement, beauty and chivalry, wit and humor, jest and 
song, group their shining circle around the fashionable 
assemblies of our land, and the siren enchantress of 
temptation holds the flashing goblet to the lips of youth 
and innocence until the inexperienced boy becomes the 
veteran toper, and he who followed leads the cohorts of 
drunken debauchery down the flowery thoroughfare to 
hell. Wives, mothers and sisters plead in vain, and 
weep in vain. The footsteps of the prodigal wanderers 
pause not in the wild and whirling dance of death. 

The shadows of battle are slowly passing away from 
the charred ruins of our desolate land, and the dove of 
peace, with the olive branch of hope, yearns to build its 
nest in all our hearts and homes. While this avenging 
curse haunts our dwellings we need not indulge the hope 
of prosperity; we dare not look for the triumph of Re- 
publicanism. The consuming canker is festering in the 
hearts of the people. The reproach of heaven rests upon 
us. If we would become exalted as a nation, we must 
see to it that the intellectual and moral culture of the 
people forms the only true and enduring foundation of 
national peace and prosperity. We must develop the 
industrial energies of the people in order to unfold the 
physical resources of our country. We must energize 
the hearts and brains of the people with a deathless love 
of virtue and a deep and lasting abhorrence for crime. 
We must commence the work at home , amid the sanctity 
of the nursery. A mother’s hand, a father’s counsel", 
must glorify the lessons of home culture and robe the 
boys of to-day with such thought and power that they 
will become the champions of virtue, liberty and truth. 


OF EGBERT HAYWOOD OSBORNE. 133 

The public eye has rested so long upon the reeling 
form of the drunkard that the melancholy spectacle has 
become a picture too common to produce more than a 
passing sigh of pity, a word of formal regret, a passing 
comment, approaching to cool indifference. Too often 
it produces a feeling of loathing and disgust in the mind 
of the sober man or the moderate drinker, without once 
awakening within the soul such deep sentiments of hu- 
manity as will urge us to labor to remove the evil, and 
stretch out the hand of Christian charity to save the un- 
happy victim of passion and appetite. Men forget that 
this lost manhood may be reclaimed, this ruined temple 
restored, and a human life brightened, a human soul 
redeemed. Men forget that the love of strong drink may 
be an inherited curse, or it may be “ monomania,” a 
form of disease. Men forget that humanity is frail, 
fallen, erring, and needs to hear the voices of hope and 
encouragement, rather than the endless storm of detrac- 
tion and jibing tones of scornful hate, howling forever 
around their pathway — earth has so much of the 
thunder of detraction, and so little of the music 
tones of a heavenly charity. Many a grand and shining 
intellect, many a brave and gentle heart, has been 
scourged down the fiery steep of ruin by the scorpion 
lash of public opinion, when perhaps a little more of 
gentleness, forgiveness and humanity might have lured 
the erring from the paths of sin and folly to the shrines 
of virtue and sobriety. 

The world is ready enough to scoff and scorn and 
curse; but not ready enough to promote every cause or 
build up every enterprise whose end and aim is, so far 
as possible, to reclaim. The world has a hatchet to cut 
down, but no hammer to build up. Much of its vaunted 
professions of humanity and love expend their forces in 
proud resolves and mighty words, and penny contribu- 
tions for the alleviation of human suffering and ele- 


134 


LIFE, LECTURES AND POETRY 


vation of man in the scale of moral refinement. The 
gigantic evil of intemperance in our land requires more 
than a passing notice or a brief resolve. It is an evil 
that should summon into bounding life all the energized 
forces of our being: time, talents, learning, wealth; all 
should be devoted to the overthrow of this fearful curse. 
We owe it to our country ; we owe it to humanity ; we 
owe it to God ; we owe it to our wives and our children, 
our sons and our daughters, to root up this upas tree 
that is overshadowing our homes, and pours the destroy- 
ing breath of the tempest over this boundless woe and 
ruin of our land. 

The savage hand of the midnight assassin holds the 
glittering blade of death — the knife flashes in the cold 
moonlight — a blow, a cry of pain, and the morning sun 
shines down upon a bloody corpse. The pulses of the 
public beat wildly, fiercely, and the dangerous question 
haunts every lip — “ Who did this awful deed?” The 
torch of the incendiary gleams out on the darkness, the 
peaceful dreams are broken, the cry of fire rings out on 
the troubled air ; by the ruins of beautiful homes, strong 
men and sorrowful women and weeping children mourn 
over the fire-crowned wreck of happy homes. The 
muffled footsteps of pestilence glide along the thick- 
peopled streets of the city, and its breath floats out into 
quiet country homes, smiting down the young and beauti- 
ful, the rich and the poor. The gaunt skeleton of famine 
broods over the barren earth, and the spectral ghost of 
want sits by the boards of penury. The children cry for 
food and perish in starving misery. War’s red avengers 
flame along the land, and the earth sickens, gorged with 
blood ; desolate fields, where once abundant plenty 
triumphed, are now the tombs of martyred millions. 
These are evils; yet, they have their remedies. The as- 
sassin and the incendiary may find their career end on 
the gallows or in a dungeon. God, in mercy, may fold 


OF EGBERT HAYWOOD OSBORNE. 


135 


back the shadow of pestilence, and through his cloudy 
wrath let the cool drops of refreshing mercy drift upon 
the heart of a dying world. The white cheek may blush 
again; the feeble step grow strong, and hope dawn in 
darkened homes. Plenty may drive away the gloom of 
famine, and the song of the reaper and the shout of the 
Harvest hymn keep time to the music of singing rains and 
rustling sheaves. War’s red banners may be folded, and 
the song of the laborer, the hum of busy wheels, the click 
of the artisan’s hammer, be heard where the war horse 
neighed, the dread artillery thundered, and charging 
squadrons fought and fell on gory fields. 

Where will the curse of Intemperance stop? When 
will there be an end to this evil ? What can we do to stay 
the fearful tide of evil which is floating so many freighted 
barques to death’s cold haven? What can we do to save 
the noble youth of our country from a drunkard’s grave, 
a drunkard’s hell? What can we do to purge our land of 
this moral malaria — more than war, pestilence or fam- 
ine? Energy, industry, labor, economy, are not only the 
sources of individual prosperity but national wealth. 
These essential elements of national thrift are effectually 
destroyed by the evil of strong drink. Intemperance 
destroys all the powers of man, withers his energies, 
produces disease, enervates his body, destroys his mind, 
corrupts his heart, squanders his property and turns him 
out upon the world a shivering beggar, a mental wreck, 
and a moral mendicant. Destitute of means, out of busi- 
ness, without friends, feelings seared, conscience dead, 
heart corrupted, mind shattered — he is a wandering 
wreck, a blasted ruin, swept down the stormy waves of 
life, without hope and without God in the world. Alas ! 
how many thousands of the human family are engaged in 
the manufacture, in the traffic, in the intemperate use of 
strong drink. Their energies withdrawn from the useful 
pursuits of life, and all their immortal powers blasted, all 


136 LIFE, LECTURES AND POETRY 

their fearful forces devoted to the ruin of their unhappy 
country I 

We have a glorious country ! God has left the kiss of 
love upon our green vales and wreathed our mountains 
with star-lit clouds. We love this dear, bright land more 
than the Switzer loves his mountain home. Nature has 
unfolded all her genial and kindly resources to make the 
dear Southland an empire of beauty and greatness — 
sublime in her scenery, affluent in the vast productions of 
her soil, and gentle in the varied softness of her climate. 
If vanity imparts pleasure, then the heart which loves the 
unfolding wonders of nature may feast itself forever 
upon the endless glories of outspread landscapes, beauti- 
ful valleys, far-stretching prairies, undulating hills, and 
sunny slopes billowy with blooming gifts and flowery 
offerings. Towering mountains, vast, rugged and awful 
in their cloud-crowned sublimity, battlements of eternal 
granite where regal Nature sits fortified in defiance of 
the thunderbolts of Imperial Jove. Queenly rivers, 
laughing streams, sparkling cascades, mighty forests of 
princely magnolia and fragrant orange groves, gigantic 
trees — the sentinels of dead centuries — whose out- 
stretched arms and massive trunks are wreathed with pur- 
ple grapes, ripe for the vintage ; flowers of every hue 
carpeting the emerald earth, and gentle winds freighted 
with perfume, and redolent with the balmy fragrance of 
eternal spring. 

The Elysian fields of classic fable, the floral plains of 
Eden, were not more “ cloudless, calm and purely beauti- 
ful ” than the fadeless vernal of our sunny land. All 
that can soothe the heart or entrance the soul of him who 
bows, a reverent worshiper at the shrine of nature, to 
gaze through star-lit aisles to nature’s God, is scattered 
with a father’s kindly hand in rich and varied munificence 
over all the beautiful, gorgeous South, — home of my child- 
hood — the Italy of America, the Eden of earth, the last 


OF EGBERT HAYWOOD OSBORNE. 137 

hope of republican freedom. If beauty, sublimity and 
grandeur can soothe the heart, inspire the soul, entrance 
the rapt senses, then may the wandering pilgrim in search 
of some vestal Mecca, at which to kneel, pause here for- 
ever. He who would ken the glories of nature, may find 
them here, gathering their wonders and marshaling their 
vast and solemn mysteries along his path. Surely, he is 
a prodigal son who would wander away from such a home 
to walk, a lonely stranger, amid the barren aisles and 
desert shades of earth in the vain search for peace. 
Surely, he is recreant to the fealty, the reverent homage 
he owes to the unmarked graves of his holy dead, to leave 
his country in the desolation of her poverty and woe and 
seek repose upon a foreign shore. Surely, he has lost 
the proud heroic mould of the patriot’s heart, who would 
turn a deaf ear to the mournful appeals of his own Souths 
land in the dark hour of her deadly peril. The groans 
of expiring liberty would greet him in a strange land, and 
the ghosts of his country’s dead haunt his footsteps on a 
foreign shore ; shadows from the tombs of his kindred 
would darken his path. 

The resources of the South unfold the golden gates of 
Eldorado to every toiling hand and fearless heart. Here 
the genius of industry gathers its vast harvests of afflu- 
ence, and scatters its golden gifts about the peaceful 
homes of our kindred. Her generous soil laughs beneath 
the plowshare of manly labor and spreads her offerings 
of love upon the plenteous board, where peace and gener- 
ous hospitality dispense their genial blessings and their 
courtly benevolence. Her mountains groan with mineral 
wealth, her white sands glitter with golden grains; her 
dancing streams warble on in quiet beauty, over silvery 
beds. Gold and silver, iron and copper, vast empires of 
coal and rivers of oil, enrich the hidden depths of the 
earth all about our homes. Every mountain, every hill 
and valley, every outstretched plain, shouts the music 


138 


LIFE, LECTURES AND POETRY 


of hope and cheer to the honest toilers of earth. The 
vastness of her treasures defies competition ; her exhaust- 
less resources are wooing forever the genius of industry. 
The South is rich in the intellectual achievements of her 
noble sons and her beautiful daughters. Her children 
have unlocked the mysteries of science and unbarred the 
portals of learning. The poet’s pen, the artist’s pencil, 
the sculptor’s chisel, the harp of poesy and the lyre of 
matchless song, have found their votaries in Southern 
homes; and fame has garlanded their names with glory 
and wreathed their toils with immortality. The sons and 
daughters of the dear Southland have traversed the starry 
fields of literature and bathed their vestal robes in the 
cloudless clime of holy thought and pure emotion. On 
the red roll of valor her warriors have written their names, 
brightest on the marble column of immortality. The 
eternal pass of old Thermopylae pales before the princely 
courage of our hero sons, and the world’s wide history 
holds no page flashing with grander names. The portrait 
galleries of earth gleam with no dearer faces, no prouder 
forms, than those noble dead, piled round the cannon’s 
mouth in their gory grey, and lying fathoms deep about 
a brave and fortified foe. Celestial vigilance keeps watch 
and ward beside their sacred dust, and the tomb of every 
Southern warrior is the picket post of a nation’s memory. 
The voices of her orators have thrilled the continents of 
earth, the islands of the deep — grander, holier and truer 
than the eloquence of classic Greece. The names of her 
statesmen are- chronicled in the memory of the world, 
and glow with imperishable splendor above the titled 
heraldry of England’s power. Civic wreaths unwashed 
by the Lethean billows of cold oblivion, glow green and 
deathless about their brows, though the dust of the tomb 
rests upon their sleeping forms. Though their voices 
are not heard in the councils of a fallen people, we will 
urn their memory in the chancel of lore, and mourn that 


OF EGBERT HAYWOOD OSBORNE. 


139 


their prophet mantle robes enfold no living champion of 
to-day. The Pulpit of the South is crowned with the 
splendors of Calvary, and the light of the third morn 
gilds its glory with fire from on high. Her ministers 
have not gone down from the serene heights of their holy 
mission, and sunk their princely powers in the poisoned 
slough of political folly or skeptical madness. The 
South, though groaning beneath the great black burden 
of her sorrow, will yet lift herself from the shadows 
piled about her, and take her proud position among the 
mighty of earth, purified by affliction and strengthened 
by trial. Divine goodness has lavished its free gifts upon 
the South ; let the guardians of her virtue and her genius 
keep their sleepless vigils by the tomb of Liberty, remem- 
bering that “ Righteousness exalteth a nation,” and soon 
the weeping patriot’s heart will greet the resurrected 
angel of freedom, and her song of triumph thrill through 
the dear Southland forever. The South, with all the 
vastness of her resources, the wealth of her intellect, the 
almost unearthly beauty of her scenery, will become a 
stormy theater — swept by the bloody waves of revolution 
and the angry factions of demoralized adventurers, unless 
the incorruptible virtue of her people, the champions of 
outraged humanity, will arise and roll back the fiery tide, 
the deadly scourge, which threatens to consume and 
utterly sweep away the peace, prosperity and happiness 
of her people. 

We are guilty before God, as a people ; guilty as a 
nation. Our senators and representatives, our law- 
making anthorities, lend their high and responsible posi- 
tions and their fatal example in perpetuating this national 
sin. Forgetful of the claims of their country, forgetful 
of their obligations as patriots, they have sunk their in- 
fluence in the whirlpool of fiery appetite by habitually 
indulgingin the sinful use of strong drink. The halls of 
national legislation reek with the deadly poison, and 


140 LIFE, LECTURES AND POETRY 

grave and reverend senators reel along the public high- 
ways of Washington — a by- word and a hiss for foreign- 
ers, and a curse to the people whose voices robed them 
with official power, and disgraced the high positions of 
trust and honor with such drunken harlequins and de- 
bauched libels upon statesmanship, morals, and pure 
patriotism. 

It is folly to, indulge the hope of national prosperity, 
the triumph of republican government, when the highest 
official dignitaries of the land are skeptical, demoralized 
and drunken. “ Whatsoever a man soweth that he shall 
also reap. If he sows to the wind he shall reap the 
whirlwind. If he sows to the flesh he shall reap corrup- 
tion. ” The fiery scourge of battle — bloody -war — with 
its avenging armies, may hush its thunders in the holy 
calm of peace. Pestilence may brood over desolate 
homes and jibe about new made graves, and roll its 
withering winds over pale and dying thousands, yet the 
white ghosts of pestilence may wander back to their 
graves and leave the world to walk the flowery paths of 
pleasure and tread the princely halls of mirth. Fam- 
ine’s gaunt and spectral curse, with its hungry thousands 
pleading for bread, may yield to the providence of divine 
mercy, and Heaven’s kindly hand may stay the dreadful 
judgment; peace will come again to the sad heart, and 
rosy health blush on the white cheek of hungry woe; the 
insane ruler of drunken harlequins and the mad legisla- 
tion of malicious idiots may bow before the indignant 
thunders of an outraged people, and sink to the fathom- 
less deep of merited infamy. Death itself — the saddest 
of all evils — may lay its white cheek trustingly upon 
the bosom of a divine Christ, and the tomb be lit by the 
immortal splendors of the cross; but there is a plague 
spot upon our nation’s honor, a fiery-visaged woe in 
every community, more deadly than the poison of Cerce, 
more to be dreaded than invading armies, pale-faced pes- 


OF EGBERT HAYWOOD OSBORNE. 


141 


tilence, gaunt famine — a foe to every hope, to every 
joy — the curse, of every curse, the foulest — the woe, 
of all our many woes, the saddest. It touches the elo- 
quent lip, and the stammering folly of drunken idiocy 
cleaves to the silvery tongue. It mars the most beauti- 
full countenance, and leaves its fiery trace upon the 
brightest face; it overpowers the most herculean frame 
and breathes its deadly weakness over all the physical 
powers of man. It shadows the brightest future with 
the darkness of despair; it corrodes and corrupts the 
most generous soul — making the majesty of manhood 
a barren waste before its infernal touch of death. It 
scathes the grandest genius with the blight of helpless 
idiocy and raving madness, throws itself upon the “ dome 
of thought, the palace of the soul.” It laughs at tears, 
scoffs conscience, scorns reason, mocks the tenderest ap- 
peals of a mother's love, jibes the gentle warnings of a 
wife’s devotion, spits upon a father’s most solemn coun- 
sels, sneers in bitter derision at a brother’s kindest ad- 
monitions, a sister’s gentlest pleading. Genius is its 
prey, reputation its sport; feeling, sensibility, refine- 
ment, love, flee aghast from its deadly presence. Con- 
science is seared by its fiery touch, and virtue withers 
where its awful shadow falls ; a nation can lament no 
foe more deadly, humanity has no enemy so remorseless. 
The gigantic curse of every land, life’s dearest joys and 
brightest hopes are blasted by its poisoned breath. I 
echo the language of the immortal bard, and say with 
solemn earnestness : — 

“Oh! thou invisible spirit of Rum , 

If thou hadst no name by which to know thee 
We would call thee — Devil! ” 

“ There walks a fiend o’er the glad green earth 
By the side of the reaper, Death ; 

He dazzles alike with the glare of mirth, 


142 


LIFE, LECTURES AND POETRY 


Or quenches the light of the household hearth, 

With his foul and withering breath. 

He stalketh abroad with his hydra head, 

And there gathereth in his train, 

The falling foot and the strong man’s tread, 

The restless living and the ghastly dead, 

And Misery , Want and Pain ! 

He nerves the arm of relentless hate, 

With the goblet’s beaded foam, 

He lurks in the halls of the rich and great, 

In the beggar’s moan, at the palace gate, 

And curses the poor man’s home. 

He barters the wealth of a spotless name, 

For the wine-cup’s subtle glow, 

And scathes the pinions of deathless fame 
’Till they droop with their burden of guilt and shame 
’Mid its dregs of sin and woe. 

And there cometh ever a sorrowing wail, 

In the path of his blighting tread ; 

And childhood’s cheek grows wan and pale, 

And its heart is faint, its footsteps fail, 

For he grudgeth the poor their bread. 

Grudgeth the poor their daily bread, 

And filleth the drunkard’s bowl, 

With want and woe, remorse and dread, 

With a nerveless hand and a failing head 
And a curse on his deathless soul. 

And beauty and manhood , love and mirth, 

Still turn to the laughing wine, 

But the blighted home and the darkened hearth 
And the tears of the sorrowing ones on earth, 

Lie deep in its gleam and shine. 

And he still watcheth with tireless will, 

For the swift and wary tread, 


OF EGBERT HAYWOOD OSBORNE. 


143 


For he knoweth the wine, with its subtle skill, 

Shall gather alike the good and ill 
’Neath the curse of his iron tread.” 

In the hands of such a foe to God and man, nature's 
rarest gifts and choicest blessings, are the broken baubles 
of childish folly, useless, worthless. Though every word 
were throbbing with the misery of the damned, and every 
thought burning with the avenging flames of perdition, I 
could give utterance to no one word that so fully types 
the woes of earth, as that one horrid word, scarred with 
the lightnings of misery, and wet with the tears of 
woe — a word which scathes the lip which breathes it — 
drunkard! — a wrecked and blasted drunkard! Pity 
weeps the kindly tear, and humanity stretches out her 
angel hand to save the youth of our country from a drunk- 
ard’s lonely life, a drunkard’s hopeless grave, a drunk- 
ard’s awful hell ! Every Southern man should feel that 
to him is committed the solemn guardianship of Southern 
virtue and honor. Public sentiment should become the 
champion of public morals. Virtue and Intelligence 
should become the highest, truest test of manhood — 
the aristocracy of the South. National wealth, vast 
armies, floating navies, cannot repay us for the per- 
ished virtue, the lost manhood, the mental waste 
and moral darkness of the nation. We must edu- 
cate, or sink deep into the dead sea of national ruin. 
The pulpit, the press, the schoolroom, the forum, must 
teem with denunciations of the awful sin of intemper- 
ance. Educated thought must flash its illuminating glory 
and pour its consoling fire upon this national sin, this 
social evil, this intellectual curse, this vast moral ruin, 
this festering in the hearts of our people. The necessity 
of total-abstinence from the accursed, soul-destroying 
poison, must penetrate the genius of public opinion. 
Ministers of God, teachers of our country’s youth, our 
country’s only hope, legislators of our land, lawyers and 


144 LIFE, LECTURES AND POETRY 

physicians, farmers and mechanics, patriots, philanthro- 
pists, Christians, in the name of suffering humanity, in 
the name of the dying genius of American liberty, in the 
name of that God who will judge us all at the last day, 
come up to the help of your country, your sons and 
daughters, save the character of our nation, and labor to 
glorify God, and bless, elevate the human family. Re- 
member that self-government is the foundation of Repub- 
lican freedom — the basis of our national prosperity. If 
our nation is steeped in sensualism and debauchery and 
drunkenness, and skepticism, the wrath of God will rest 
upon us, and all our boasted liberty will be a jest for 
fools. What constitutes a State? Let the language of 
one of the gifted sons of earth answer the question ; for 
well and truly did Sir William Jones paint the picture of 
a nation’s glory, in the majesty of a virtuous manhood : — 

“ What constitutes a State? 

Not high raised battlements or labored mound, 

Thick wall or moated gate ; 

Not cities high with spires and turrets crowned. 

Not bays and broad armed ports, 

Where laughing at the storm rich navies ride. 

Not starred and spangled courts, 

Where low- browed envy wafts perfume to pride. 

No! men, high-minded men. 

With powers as high above dull brutes endued 
In forest, brake, or den, 

As beasts excel dull rocks and brambles rude. 

Men , who their duties know, 

But know their rights and knowing dare maintain, 
Prevent the long aimed blow, 

And crush the tyrant while they rend the chain — 

These constitute a State / 

There is no tyrant like Prince Alcohol, no tyrant like 
the tyranny of habit , no despotism like the despotism of 
passion and appetite enthroning their awful power on 
heart and brain, and dragging their wailing victim to ruin, 


OF EGBERT HAYWOOD OSBORNE. 


145 


helpless as Laocoon in the folds of the insinuating serpent. 
Illustrative of the 'power of habit is the story which has 
floated down to us from the old Greeks, which tells us 
that Dejanira, the wife of Hercules, once sent her husband 
a vest dipped in poisoned blood, on pretense of preserv- 
ing him from evil. Hercules, knowing nothing of the 
power of the poison, and perfectly unsuspicious, put it 
on, and for a while felt no ill effects. But presently the 
poison began to work, and sharp pains to run through his 
whole body. And now he strove to pull off the enven- 
omed shirt, but in vain; it clung fast to him, or if, by 
means of his great strength, he tore away a piece of it, 
the skin and flesh came with it ; and at last the poison ate 
into his very vitals, so that he died. He had been strong 
enough for almost anything else, but he was not strong 
enough to tear off that garment. It was an easy matter 
to put it on, but not so easy to take it off. The first 
temptation submitted to by the young, and thoughtless, 
and generous-minded youth, is the power which ruins. 
Submit , and you are lost, resist , and you are safe. Youth- 
ful dissipation is a magic stream; steep but your lips in 
its sparkling waters, and already with a charmed spell 
upon your spirits, you are borne headlong to ruin. The 
first false step is the step to be avoided. Evil is progres- 
sive. One sin begets another. Eternal interests cluster 
around the first step. The unhappy victim of strong drink 
dates his doom and traces his misery back to the first 
glass of wine. The first drink was the poisoned shirt of 
Hercules. If the world had the experience of every 
drunkard who ever lived, or died, it could, and would, be 
written in these little words — the first drink! It is the 
first drink which creates a thirst for more . It is the soli- 
tary seed , destined to bring forth a harvest of misery and 
death. It is the cloud, not larger than a man’s hand, 
widening into the howling tempest, the desolating whirl- 
wind, crushing all before it. One drink creates a thirst 


146 


LIFE, LECTURES AND POETRY 


for another drink. The love of stimulants creates a 
burning and resistless thirst for more. What satisfied 
yesterday will not satisfy to-day. The system demands 
more. The poor slave of habit cries out in his madness, 
“ fill high the sparkling bowl, though there be a lurking 
devil in each poisoned drop, I care not. Here, here, I can 
assuage the cold rebukes of reason, and the poignant sting 
of calm reflection. ” Like Homer’s giant quaffing from 
the goblet of Ulysses, he says: “ Give , give me more ; it 
is divine! ” Let the dark annals of the past and the pres- 
ent verify the truth of what is here written — the faith- 
fulness of the portrait. All human experience upon this 
subject teaches that it is much more easy to withstand the 
temptation to take the first drink , than to conquer the 
power of habitual indulgence. Sipping leads to tippling ; 
tippling leads to dram drinking ; dram drinking leads to 
toperizing; toperizingto delirium tremens. Ale , beer and 
cider are the alphabet of drunkenness. There are gradual, 
descending gradations in the downward road of ruin. 
Men never plunge into the fathomless abyss of drunken 
debauchery at a single, fearful stride. They rarely ever 
strip themselves of the vesture of purity, the restraints of 
a refined social life, at a single bound. The work is pro- 
gressive, gradual, but none the less sure and fearful. If 
the ghostly spectres of woe and ruin, slumbering in the 
deep of the viewless future, could only rise up and stand 
before him in the gilded saloons where he takes an occa- 
sional glass of wine with a friend, he would grow white 
with agony. The thought of being a drunkard never 
obtrudes itself upon him. He spurns the rising fears of 
his friends with outraged dignity — “is thy servant a dog 
that he should do this thing? ” Strange that he turns a 
deaf ear to the sad history of thousands who fill a drunk- 
ard’s grave, and who once reasoned just as he now rea- 
sons. Strange that he will close his eyes to the fire-crowned 
heights of experience jutting up from the stormy billows 


OF EGBERT HAYWOOD OSBORNE. 


147 


of life. His security, his self-control, is a fearful delu- 
sion. Wine only produces now a pleasurable sensation. 
It has not yet commenced its horrid mockery . The ser- 
pent is slowly coiling — coiling its deathly folds around 
him. He tarries longer in the festal hall than formerly. 
He begins to love the sparkling revelry. The flow of the 
exhilarating wine-cup begins to form, not a source of 
occasional pleasure, but an awful necessity. His nerves 
demand it. His brain pleads for it. He looks one mo- 
ment at the bottomless hell of woe that is opening at his 
wayward feet and rushes back. He remembers the les- 
sons of a mother’s love. The voice of her pleading 
prayers come back from the grave to haunt him. Child- 
hood’s halcyon days of purity, over which memory broods 
with sorrow and despair, boyhood’s proud dreams, all 
group about his soul, and he cries out in agony — “ Oh! 
who shall deliver me from this dead body of sin? What 
hand will scourge away this terrible appetite, that is as re- 
morseless as the grave? ” He would abandon the dark and 
downward road, but alas ! he is the victim of strong drink . 
He thought, alas! like too many more think, that moral 
firmness and self-control would guide him in the path of mod- 
eration, He coulddrinkasocialglass with hisfriends nowand 
then ; he had no fears that the word sot would ever be writ- 
ten upon his history and burnt into his soul. He argued, 
when urged to sign the pledge of total abstinence , that a 
little wine for his stomach’s sake and his oft infirmities, 
was a Bible injunction, an apostolic command, which 
warranted him in the moderate use of the good things 
which the Lord had made for his creatures ! He said it 
was a clear confession upon the part of every man who 
signed the temperance pledge, that he had not the man- 
hood to resist temptation — the moral firmness to turn 
away from wine and strong drink. For his part, he was 
a man, full-orbed and majestic, in his royal powers of 
resistance. He would not sign away his freedom, his 


148 


LIFE, LECTURES AND POETRY 


privilege to take a glass of wine. Never, never ! Tem- 
perance reform was a spasmodic hobby for old men and 
little boys, and old women and young girls, but for a man, 
like him, it would be a confession of weakness to join the 
Sons of Temperance. He needed no social combinations 
to endow him with reason, firmness and self-control enough 
to withstand the seductive whisperings of the tempter. 
He was a man — a gentleman — and the very invitation 
to join a temperance organization was an insult to his 
manhood. Poor, deluded man ! he died the other day of 
mania potu.. This is no dream of fancy, no vision of the 
night. I knew him and loved him, and pitied him, and 
did all I could to save him. My appeals have always met 
with — “Oh! there is no danger, no danger. ,, This 
melancholy history of one poor, tempted, fallen soul, is 
but a type of thousands and millions throughout the 
United States of America. There is a fearful delusion 
about strong drink that is perfectly awful. Go even to 
the old toper who has been the slave of drunkenness in its 
most beastly and disgusting form, for years, friendless, 
pennile-s, homeless, and he spurns the insinuation that he 
is the hopeless slave of a pitiless appetite. He may tell 
you that he drinks because he loves the taste and the effects 
of strong dii ik, but you can never get him to confess that 
he is powerless to resist temptation. He will tell you that 
he can abandon the use of all intoxicating drinks when he 
pleases ! He is master of himself, and fully capable of 
governing his raging appetites ! He will abuse a com- 
mon drunkard, while he himself is reeling under the fear- 
ful curse, and bloated by strong drink ! He cannot, some- 
how or other, be brought to “ see himself as others see 
him.” He seldom realizes his danger until it is too late. 
What remedy will reach such a case and restore the man? 
Preach to him that Jesus died for sinners? He will not 
intrude his presence upon a congregation of worshiping 
Christians. Yon must prepare his mind to hear the truth 


OF EGBERT HAYWOOD OSBORNE. 


149 


and receive the truth. His brain is on fire, his stomach 
is hungering after strong drink ; his arteries and veins are 
living streams of flame ; his nerves are wrecked ; his con- 
science is dead. The refined sensibilities of his nature 
are all withered. He does not want salvation ; he wants 
whisky ! He would flee away from the most eloquent ser- 
mon and rush into the back door of a saloon ! To him there 
is nothing congenial about the house of God. The Sabbath 
has no sacredness for him ; the pulpit no charms. Hymns 
and psalms, and spiritual songs, are his peculiar aversion. 
Prayers are the horrible inventions of priestcraft. Chris- 
tians are all hypocrites. Religion a ghastly lie ; heaven a 
dream, and hell a fiction. The man is diseased ; what will 
bring him to his senses? His only salvation is in aban- 
doning now, and forever, the use of strong drink. Total 
abstinence will make a sober man out of a drunken sot. 
Sobriety may lead him to serious reflection. Clothed and 
in his sober senses, he abandons the haunts of vice and 
drunkenness, and seeks for society among sober, church- 
going people. He listens to the truth. God’s Holy Spirit 
convinces him of sin. He is pointed to Jesus. “ Behold ! 
he prayeth.” “ Salvation is of the Lord! ” No man in 
the possession of a calm, unbiased judgment will deny that 
the intemperate use of ardent spirits is an evil , physically, 
intellectually, morally, socially, nationally, an evil in 
every sense, and everywhere, without the redeeming 
virtue of a single blessing connected with it. No man 
will deny that intemperance deranges all the powers of 
the physical man, fires the blood, corrodes the stomach, 
maddens the brain, consumes the vitals, palsies the nerves, 
bestializes the soul, and opens the grave to sixty thou- 
sand unhappy, ruined victims annually. Industry and 
energy, the life of every private and public enterprise — 
the fountain of individual and national affluence — that 
power to which we all are looking to unfold the mighty 
resources of our fallen country, is effectually ruined by 


150 LIFE, LECTURES AND POETRY 

intemperance. The poor, unhappy victim of strong 
drink puts forth no vast concentration of physical, intel- 
lectual or moral power, to accomplish anything great or 
good, because the sources of his power have all been 
drained and dried up by the habitual use of stimulants, 
which only excite momentarily, and then leave the whole 
man powerless, the victim of disease and slothfulness — 
“leads to bewilder and dazzles to blind” — whispers 
“ peace, peace, when there is no peace.” He would cut 
himself loose from the deadly coil of the Serpent; he 
would flee the gathering darkness, the awful doom 
hanging over him. The avenger is on his track; he 
cannot escape: — 

“ Horror and doubt disUact 
His troubled thoughts, and from the bottom stir 
The hell within him ; for within him hell 
He brings, and ’round about him, and from hell, 

One step, no more than from himself, can fly, 

By chance of place. Now conscience wakes despair, 
That slumbered, wakes the better memory 
Of what he was, what is, and what must be.” 

No man in his senses will deny that the habitual use 
of intoxicating spirits is a fearful source of poverty to 
thousands in our land. To say nothing of the means 
squandered in drunken revelries, the sources of wealth 
and independence, industry, energy, economy, the dig- 
nity and power of labor, are effectually destroyed, and 
shiftless indolence and squalid want preside at the barren 
board, with hungry children and white-faced famine. 
Want and misery haunt the wretched hovels. How bit- 
ter to these children is the memory of their old dear 
home, of hope and plenty ! Alas ! ’tis only a beautiful 
memory, fading fast ! Will the victim of the wine-cup 
say that he has a right to spend his money as he pleases? 
He has no such right. He has no right to bring misery 
and broken-hearted woe upon the wife of his bosom, 


OF EGBERT HAYWOOD OSBORNE. 


151 


whom he swore to cherish, honor and support. He has 
no right to bring ignorance and penury upon his chil- 
dren, and bequeath his family to institutions of public 
charity. No law, human or divine, guarantees such a 
right. The money squandered for the gratification of 
this appetite, this love of strong drink, would build a 
church in every neighborhood, send the Word of Eternal 
Life teeming with hopes which arch the grave and kiss 
the green hills of glory, to every nation under heaven, 
endow a University in every State, and rear an Academy 
in every civil district on the Continent of North America. 
It would feed the hungry, clothe the naked, and educate 
the orphan throughout all our sorrowful country. The 
State of Tennessee squanders over twenty million dollars 
annually for strong drink ! more than enough to feed, 
clothe and educate every poor boy and girl in the State. 
This fact is established beyond doubt. No man in his 
senses will deny that intemperance destroys the powers 
of the grandest intellect, vitiates the taste, corrupts the 
imagination, blunts the sensibilities, degrades the reason, 
destroys the grasp of judgment and power of the will, 
shadows the brightest genius with the moonless night of 
idiocy, kindles the deadly flame of passion in the soul, 
feeds the consuming fires of hatred, suspicion and jeal- 
ousy. No man in his senses will deny that intemperance 
steeps the moral refinements of the soul in the poisoned 
slough of vice, feeds the fires of unholy passion, panders 
to the foulest appetites of man’s fallen nature, and 
sweeps its victim away from the circle of virtuous, re- 
fined and cultivated society, down into the loathsome 
sinks of pollution, where the bestial and besotted forget 
the proud prerogatives of manhood, in the demon’s rev- 
elry and the madman’s fierce debauch. 

“ There is no vice which, in one black and awful gulf, 
swallows up so much of hope and happiness as intemper- 
ance. It prostrates all that is great, and blights all that 


152 


LIFE, LECTURES AND POETRY 


is good in humanity. The man of honor it betrays into 
infamy — the man of virtue into sin. It touches the 
manly frame, and it is clothed with consumption. It 
seizes the intellect, and its divine lineaments are blotted 
out forever. It breathes upon the holy affections and 
they are blasted. It destroys the tenderest ties of social 
life, exiles the sweet endearments of home, and robs the 
earth of its loveliness.” It saps the foundations of faith 
in God or man, and launches its bloated wreck upon a 
sea of surging passions, bannered with gloomy doubt or 
fearful unbelief. A faithless wanderer, over whose des- 
olate way there gleams no star of hope, about whose life 
there are no sunlit smiles, no words of welcome cheerful- 
ness, no tones of holy love — nothing, nothing but the 
withered wreaths of plucked hopes, hung up in the tem- 
ple of memory — nothing but gloomy wrecks piled, vast 
and awful, along the shores of life. No man in his senses 
will deny that intemperance poisons the fountain of all 
those endearing affections which impart such a dear, glad 
glory to the blessings of home, changing the peaceful 
current of domestic love and joy into the stormy desola- 
tions of despair and misery. Oh ! nearest to God’s own 
bright heaven is a happy, tranquil home, where kindly 
words and gentle tones, and holy trust and stainless love 
soothes every disappointment, and brightens every fail- 
ure with hope and courage : 

“ ’Tis home where’er the heart is, 

Where’er its living treasures dwell — 

In cabin or in princely hall, 

In forest haunt or hermit’s cell.” 

Poverty may not darken its holy peace ; suffering and 
trial only bind closer the trusting hearts. Love is there ; 
and love is stronger than death, and mightier than the 
grave. Harmony is there ; no drunken oaths, no fierce 
blows weave their lightning under the roof-tree. There 


OF EGBERT HAYWOOD OSBORNE. 


153 


is an eye to “ mark our coming and look brighter when 
we come ” — there peals the glad shout of happy chil- 
dren — there is felt the clinging arms of childhood, the 
kiss of stainless love, and beautiful faith to greet as to 
the tranquil peace of “ home, sweet home.” In the ar- 
chives of the undying soul we shrine the Eden beauty of 
the scene forever. The affections of the heart give to 
home its brightness and its witchery. But let intemper- 
ance poison the fount of love and make the fruitful 
streams of pure feeling dry as summer dust, barren as 
a desert waste, then tell me, if you can, the agony of 
that fond wife, the shuddering dread of those sweet chil- 
dren, the pinching misery which looks so ghastly in its 
woe, peering through the broken windows, sitting down 
amid squalid want, cowering away from our gaze in flut- 
tering, filthy rags, or pleading, with piteous tones, for 
“ charity.” The drunken wreck, who staggers to this 
hovel of filth and penury and shame, bore off the proud- 
est honors from his Alma Mater. He inherited wealth 
from as proud an ancestry as any in the land. His Cice- 
ronian eloquence once thrilled the temples of justice and 
stirred the hearts of the shouting populace. His home 
was once a princely home, where wealth and taste, learn- 
ing and refinement, beauty and wit, music and dancing, 
wine and song, gladdened the hearts of the gay and the 
beautiful, wealth and pride assembled in those illuminated 
halls, to feast and sing and dance. His wife was a gentle- 
hearted, loving woman, cultivated, refined and queenty in 
her womanly loveliness and virtue. He loved her. He 
chided the evening zephyr that kissed her cheek too rudely. 
Amid the serene respectabilities and aristocratic circles 
of the “ Old North State ” he learned to sip the social 
glass of genial companionship. He drank moderately 
amid the sanctities of home. He walked within the soul 
a ravenous fiend, a raving, remorseless devil, which 
would not down at his bidding. Misfortunes came; he 


154 


LIFE, LECTURES AND POETRY 


drank to hush the inner voices of his woe. He glided, step 
by step, from his princely mansion, with all its holy ties of 
love, to a miserable hut, from the horrors of penury to the 
gutter in the street. Barefooted, in rags and misery, 
that man would beg money from the members of the bar, 
to buy a dram ! That man, who stood once a head and 
shoulders above all about him — that “ forest-born De- 
mosthenes, ” whose glorious eloquence entranced the 
shouting multitude, had come to this ! Alas ! that man- 
hood’s glory should be wrecked, and the last vestige of 
manhood’s prime and purity be swept from us forever 
by intemperance, leaving us nothing but the bloated 
hulk, the broken shell, marred and blackened and burnt 
into a shapeless mass of corroding ruins, an ulcerated 
carcass, heart and brain quenched and quivering in the 
moonless midnight of despair and corruption ! 

Young men of my country ! permit one who loves you 
and most sincerely desires your interest and happiness, 
who would see you a blessing to your country, useful, 
beloved and happy, a joy to all about you and a living 
glory amid the blackness which shrouds the future of our 
country, to warn you, kindly and affectionately, of the 
wreck-mantled reefs, the dread whirlpools which threaten 
your ruin, and amid whose endless gloom and sorrow 
many a gallant sail has gone down, many a noble barque 
been wrecked. The future of the South depends upon 
the rising generation. The future well-being of the South 
depends upon the moral and intellectual power of the 
rising generation. These are truisms. Christianity, 
philanthropy and patriotism, every sentiment of human- 
ity, imperatively demands of the human heart the 
“ tribute of a tear ” over the wide wasting woes and hor- 
rors inflicted upon us as a people by the desolating influ- 
ences of Intemperance. The devastations of this gigantic 
evil, blasting the brightest prospects and stupefying the 
mightiest intellects of our sorrowful laud, demand with 


155 


OF EGBERT HAYWOOD OSBORNE. 

increased and ever-increasing earnestness that we should 
lift up our voices in tones of pleading love and holy woo- 
ing, warning the youth of our native land to beware of 
youthful dissipation. Passion, appetite, habit, these are 
the remorseless despots of the brain ; they govern with 
more than the pitiless terror of the bloody tyrant. They 
laugh at tears, scoff at reason, scorn the wailings of re- 
morse. They jest with character, and sport with love. 
They fill the gentlest heart with images from hell, and write 
upon the loftiest dome of genius the barren echoes of 
dreary idiocy. They rend the golden bonds of earth’s 
sweet fellowship, and exile the heart from all that robes 
this fallen world in Eden’s light. They blight and blast, 
corrupt, corrode and damn, with pitiless vindictiveness 
and malicious hate. Oh ! how the heart bleeds while 
gazing on the hopeless ruin this fiery fiend has wrought 
throughout the once beautiful homes of our once beauti- 
ful land. How many proud hopes, stretching away into 
the golden tinted future, how many lofty dreams of young 
ambition, whose sainted visions were hued with light 
from far-shining stars, how many holy loves of a lonely 
life have all, all set in darkness, like shattered stars, no 
more to glad the longing vision of the anxious watcher? 
Genius and learning are not proof against the siren 
witchery of youthful dissipation. Nor can boasted reason 
loose the galling chains when once bound about the raving 
captive. A dread blackness covers him. A dreary apathy 
enshrouds his senses, and his god-like powers are dead 
to the appeals of reason, the pleadings of conscience, the 
cries of remorse, the tears of a mother, the prayers of a 
wife, the wail of children, the thunders of Almighty 
wrath, the tender pathos of the Cross, all move him not 
from the dread slumber of the soul. He sleeps : a starless 
midnight, solemn and silent, has settled on his stupefied 
senses. He has lost his moorings, nor can he find the post 
of duty in the path he treads. Reason’s guiding star is 


156 


LIFE, LECTURES AND POETRY 


eclipsed. The haggard forms of a frenzied brain people 
his home, and strew his pathway. It is a melancholy 
truth that men endowed with the strongest minds, the 
most sportive and vivid fancy, the most sparkling and 
racy wit, have been immolated upon the shrine of this fell 
destroyer. Who has not heard of Sheridan, the cotem- 
porary of Burke, Pitt and Fox, and other illustrious men 
who at that time adorned the British Parliament? Who 
has read the impeachment of Warren Hastings and not 
been carried away by its fervid, impassioned eloquence? 
It seemed distilled from the honeyed tongue of some soft 
siren. His wit was as bright and polished as the far- 
famed Damascus blade ; his classic taste ns soft and beau- 
tiful as a summer’s twilight in the vale of Tempe ; his 
genius as bright as the flames which burnt around the 
shrine of Vesta. Like the column at Alexandria he stood 
alone in classic dignity. In the language of England’s 
noble poet — 

“ Long may we seek his likeness, long in vain, 

And turn to all of him which may remain, 

Sighing that Nature formed but one such man — 

And broke the die in moulding Sheridan! ” 

Nothing in all the wide range of thought, in the highest 
flights of unwearied fancy, seems half so fearful as a great 
mind in 7'uins! A lonely wreck, far out at sea, where the 
storm-god howls and the wild waves leap to the thunder’s 
awful voice, where the foam-crested billow is the shroud 
of the lost, and the hurricane’s song is the dirge of the 
dead, fills the soul with sentiments of horror. The solemn 
roar of the earthquake, where giant footsteps are journey- 
ing on beneath the streets of the thickly-peopled city, 
and howling over upheaved mountains and broken homes, 
and the crushed and buried thousands, shadows the heart 
with pity too deep for words. But why bend the weary 
wing of fancy, or sketch the horrible in life? There is no 


OF EGBERT HAYWOOD OSBORNE. 


157 


picture, in all the portrait-galleries of earth or hell, can 
equal the unspeakable desolation which glooms a ruined 
mind. Go to the city of Baltimore on a cheerless Novem- 
ber night. Who is that lying on the streets — stupefied 
with drinking, covered with dirt, and his face distorted 
with horror — forsaken by his boon companions? Edgar 
Allen Poe. Reared in the most elegant society, educated 
in the most polished schools, he possessed poetic gifts of 
unwonted beauty and brilliancy. He was making a jour- 
ney when his death occurred, and he was occupied with 
preparations for his wedding day. A dream of love and 
beauty had nestled in his soul. He listened to the voice 
of the tempter; drank, fell — died with mania potu. 
“ Shall I send for your friends? ” “.Friends? ” said the 
dying man, as though the word was a mockery, “ my best 
friend would be he who would take a pistol and blow out 
my brains, and thus relieve me of my misery!” His 
lips curled bitterly. These were his dying words. Gaze 
upon the towering form of that golden-lipped orator, 
whose eloquence startled and awed, by its wondrous 
power, the listening thousands of his enraptured country- 
men. When he would sweep the gentler chords of the 
human heart, or tell some tearful tale of woe, hi3 words 
were soft as the under chime of some embodied spirit of 
music, sweet as an angel whisper, low as iEolian winds, 
but when he summoned the foe to the tournament, his 
voice fell upon the soul like the shout of victorious armies. 
I have sat and heard him repeat the inimitable wonders of 
the immortal Shakespeare, until I almost forgot his frail- 
ties, and felt alone the presence of a royal man. We 
turn our eyes to the solitary gloom of a distant asylum, 
and hearken to the last wail of his broken harp, and mourn 
as we see the lightning-scarred wing of the princely eagle 
struggling once more to touch the high, far-shining world 
of olden thought and power. We see the white face, 
scarred with woe, pressing hard against the barred win- 


158 


LIFE, LECTURES AND POETRY 


clows of his prison home. From the shadow of an insane 
asylum we hear the last lonely notes of a shattered lyre 

“ I am adrift on life’s ocean, and wildly I sweep, 

Aimless and helmless, its fathomless deep. 

The wild winds assail me, it threateningly storms, 

The clouds roll around me in hideous forms. 

I drift to a lee shore ! I strike ! am aground ! 

The mad waters whelm me ! I drown! oh! I drown! 
Mercy ! oh ! mercy ! O Lord set me free ! 

And take me, oh ! take me to heaven and Thee ! 

“ I wander life’s desert, lone, desolate, sad, 

Faint, reeling and weary. I’m mad! oh! I’m mad! 

No glad waters meet me, no streams flowing free ; 

I perish ! I perish ! O Lord set me free. 

Ah! hopeless I pray thee, ’ tis idle and vain ; 

I perish! I perish! Rain, rain, give me rain! 

Let the stream of deliverance flow gently to me, 

And drift me, oh ! drift me to heaven and Thee ! 

“ ’Mid the wranglings of men and their conflicts so fierce, 
Half mad and despairing, my lips spit a curse, 

Instead of imploring a refuge and peace, 

From life’s maddening battle for hope and peace, 

I bear on defiantly, proud, reckless, unblanched, 

At the dangers that hem me. The curses I launched 
At earth and at heaven ! Lord ! mercy for me ! 

Receive me! receive me! to heaven and Thee.” 

Marshal the ghosts of the mighty dead from the un- 
honored graves of the eternal past ! Let them stand 
before us — statesmen, poets, philosophers, orators, men 
of genius and learning — and count the names of those 
who fill the tomb of the drunkard, if you can ! Let the 
contemplation of this truth rouse us to action. 

“ Of all the forms which this evil assumes, that of 
moderate drinking is the most seductive, and the most 
dangerous. The deep and irreparable injury which alco- 
hol inflicts on the human system has been set forth by 


OF EGBERT HAYWOOD OSBORNE. 159 

the most competent investigators. But its worst effects 
is upon the brains of its numerous victims, thereby de- 
ranging their thoughts, debasing their morals and per- 
plexing all human affairs. Industry in every department, 
agriculture, manufactures, trade in all its ramifications, 
everything pertaining to the welfare of society is ob- 
structed and retarded by an agent that distracts and con- 
fuses the operations of the brain. Intellect is what rules 
the world ; consequently, what ever jars and confuses the 
intellects of the people, disorders everything. Education, 
religion, liberty, and every other good cause, is impeded 
by it. It is not that a few poor creatures get drunk oc- 
casionally, and suffer as individuals for their folly, but 
every interest most dear to civilization is embarrassed or 
blighted by this mind-perverting agent. It assaults the 
very citadel of reason and deranges the mental machinery. 
That most brilliant light in the scientific world, Professor 
Youmans, very justly observes: ‘Were some inferior 
organ of the body, whose functions are purely of a phy- 
sical or chemical nature, the object of alcoholic invasion, 
the attitude of the question would be greatly changed. 
But alcohol is specifically a cerebral poison. It seizes, 
with a disorganizing energy, upon the brain, that myste- 
rious part, whose steady and undisturbed action holds 
man in true and responsible relations with his family, 
with society and with God ; and it is this fearful fact that 
gives to government and society their tremendous inter- 
est in the question/ The symptoms of the first stage in 
intemperance are somewhat obscure; because, first they 
are not so apparent; and second, they have not been in- 
vestigated as they should have been. The first, Tvhich is 
by far the worst state of intoxication, has not elicited 
that attention from competent observers which has been 
given to the second stage. The phenomena of undis- 
guised sottishness have been described in prose and 
verse ; but the first, or moderate stage, which is the most 


160 


LIFE, LECTURES AND POETRY 


prevalent, and for that among other reasons, the most 
hurtful — aside from and independent of its tendency to 
excess — has been permitted to pass almost unnoticed. 
There is, of course, some excitement of the mental func- 
tions; but as this does notarise from a natural or health- 
ful stimulus, it is a perversion rather than a true exalta- 
tion of the intellect. Voluntary control over the current 
of thought, which is a distinguishing trait of a sound 
mind, is much weakened. While ideas and images flit 
through the brain with greater rapidity, no mental pro- 
cess can be carried on with the same continuity as in a 
state of perfect sobriety. ^One of the worst consequences 
of this degree of intoxication is, that it deprives a man of 
that calm reflection and sagacious foresight so essential 
to the correct performance of his duties in every relation 
of life. If the privation of reason is only partial, then 
the victim is not the same person he would be if in a 
natural condition, and a very large proportion of our 
public men are stunted and distorted in this way. The 
passions and emotions are more easily aroused and are 
less under the control of the will. From this it will be 
perceived that no man is quite sane after having drank 
one small glass. He is a changed man, and will say and 
do things that he would not say or do if he was unaffected 
by liquor. He has parted with a portion of his discre- 
tion, which is among the higher attributes of his man- 
hood. He has lost some of his reason. While his passions 
are more readily provoked, he has become weakened in 
the power of self-control. He is not only more inclined 
to do wrong, but is less liable to restrain himself from 
wrong-doing. He has, therefore, undergone a very seri- 
ous transformation ; and if not ready for an evil deed, he 
is certainly more liable to be led into vice and crime. 
Such is the effect of the most moderate use of alcoholic 
beverages. In order to obtain a clear comprehension of 
the injury to the brain and nervous system which is 


OF EGBERT HAYWOOD OSBORNE. 161 

caused by one drink of any kind of liquor containing 
alcohol, we have only to suppose the effect, however 
slight, to be as lasting as life itself; that nature was not 
kind enough to relieve its victim in due time of the 
maudlin and perplexing burden ; that there was no balm 
in Gilead for such a case, and no means under heaven by 
which he could become a sober man again. Could we 
conceive of a greater affliction, short of the entire wreck 
of reason, than a mortal thus doomed to carry in his 
blood and in his brain that one portion of alcohol during 
all the days and nights of his earthly existence? Would 
not such a wretch cross the seas and wander to the utter- 
most parts of the earth for relief? Would he not sigh 
continually for deliverance, and long for sobriety or 
death? Well, if the intoxication of one glass would be 
such a horrible calamity, in case it was permanent and 
hopeless, it must be equally bad while it lasts. Who 
would wish to be that much deranged for a short time — 
even for a moment. If the effects of one glass could be 
as plainly seen as the effect of fire, we should be able to 
gauge the exact degree of intoxication of those around 
us, and would be better able to protect ourselves from 
this frequent outrage. A dog that bites without first 
alarming you with his bark or growl, is a more vicious 
brute than one that gives timely warning. The silent, 
stealthy copperhead is more to be dreaded than the 
threatening rattlesnake. A lunatic who is not so far 
demented as not to be able at times to disguise his real 
condition, in the presence of all except experts in the art 
of detecting insanity, is a more dangerous character than 
one who is manifestly crazy. The drunkard raises his 
colors and bids those around him be on their guard, but 
the moderate drinker is ambushed and concealed by an 
appearance of sobriety. When we know a man is drunk 
we can look out for him ; but the misfortune is, we are 
surrounded by moderate drinkers in every walk of life, 

11 


162 


LIFE, LECTURES AND POETRY 


who do not disclose their real condition. Men who are 
in the habit of using alcoholic beverages are never en- 
tirely clear of their mind-destroying and mind-disturbing 
effect, and are therefore never perfectly sane; conse- 
quently, nearly all of our legislators are, much of their 
time, more or less crazy. They have not that use of their 
faculties that they would have if their brains were in a 
normal state. Every impulse of such potations deranges 
the exquisite mechanism of the mental organism and un- 
tunes some string in the fine harp of volition. The free 
and unembarrassed use of the reasoning powers is essen- 
tial to right action, and it is vain to expect wise legisla- 
tion without it. We have never yet had a Legislature 
uninfluenced by alcohol, and we can hardly realize what 
a blessing it would be to have one such. The evils of 
downright sottishness are often overrated, while the evils 
of moderate tippling of themselves , and apart from all 
tendency to excess , have never been adequately depicted. 
Extreme drunkenness, with all its pains and horrors, is 
a condition that carries with it a salutary disgust and a 
wholesome warning. It is, therefore, a blessed thing 
compared with moderate drinking, in every light in which 
it can be viewed. It is a blessing to the drinker, because 
it can be viewed. It is a blessing to the drinker, because 
it punishes him for the violation of his moral and phy- 
sical nature. It makes him stupid and unable to do the 
mischief he would be more likely to do in a moderate 
state of intoxication. It presents a striking lesson to all, 
of some of the miseries inseparable from the drinking 
fashion. The lowest class of drunkards would be ashamed 
to drink, if they were not sustained by the example of 
their more respectable and moderate associates ; they 
would not be seen at a place where none but their own 
tribe were admitted. The liquor traffic is kept up by mod- 
erate drinkers, and for moderate drinkers . No human 
being could be found low enough to keep a den for the ex - 


OF EGBERT HAYWOOD OSBORNE. 


163 


elusive accommodation of drunken sots. The sots are re- 
lieved of self-disgust by mixing themselves up with mod- 
erate drunkards as much as possible. If there could be 
no tippling, without vulgar excess; if any man that uses 
alcohol as a drink would imbibe a quantity sufficient to 
make him beastly drunk every time he tasted it; if there 
were but two classes in the country, helpless sots and con- 
sistent teetotallers, our condition would be vastly better 
than it is now, and it would continue to improve rapidly . 
The sober class would increase and the sots would dimin- 
ish, until this greatest of all evils would disappear. That 
bloated remnant of perished manhood, reeling, blasphem- 
ing, wallowing in the filth of the gutter, tracked to his 
den of corruption by the slime he leaves behind him, has 
no influence over the young man. The Lacedaemonians 
made their slaves drunk that their children might behold 
the disgusting spectacle of shame, and shun the horrid evil. 
It is the eloquent, refined tippler, the gentlemanly dram- 
drinker, the respectable citizen, the ecclesiastical saint, 
who indulges moderately, two or three times a day, in a 
glass of wine or a little sweetened dram , or a small horn 
of hitters , for his stomach’s sake, who is running the 
still-houses and making the groceries profitable ! If the 
vast army of drunken sots did not receive constant re- 
cruits from the respectable ranks of moderate drinkers, 
we would soon have a sober world. Public opinion 
brands the man who staggers under his half pint of 
whisky with infamy and pets the man who walks 
erect with a quart in his stomach ! This heavily 
muscled saint deserves a crown of glory! “ Sich is 
life! ” Those who live near Vesuvius, we are told, 
are so accustomed to the desolations from the volcanic 
eruptions, that they become insensible to the danger 
except at the moment of actual peril. Then attention is 
arrested only when the burning streams roll down in tor- 
rents upon their houses, and as soon as the molten lava 


164 LIFE, LECTURES AND POETRY 

cools they return to their old homes to repair the waste, 
and soon live on, with little or no concern about any dan- 
ger. Their history illustrates a moral phase of society. 
Drunkenness sweeps overour land. Next to Great Britain, 
probably, there is not a more besotted nation in the world 
than ours. The Hon. David A. Wells, Special Commis- 
sioner of the Revenue, in his Report to the Secretary 
of the Treasury, January, 1868, communicates some start- 
ling facts, concerning the amount of liquor distilled in the 
United States annually, and the amount of money spent 
for strong drink. He tells us: “ Th q present production 
of distilled spirits in the United States, theoretically 
available for assessment and revenue, is undoubtedly 
about fifty millions of proof gallons per annum.” He 
states that the value of the retail liquor sales reaches, in a 
single year , the enormous sum of “ One billion, four hun- 
dred and eighty-tliree millions, four hundred and ninety- 
one thousand , eight hundred and sixty -five dollars .” In 
the consumption of such a vast amount of liquor, sixty 
thousand lives are annually destroyed, one hundred thou- 
sand men and women sent to prison, and two hundred 
thousand children are bequeathed to poorhouses and 
charitable institutions. In addition, three hundred mur- 
ders and four hundred suicides are committed, and the 
expense connected with these events is two hundred 
million dollars. Eight hundred thousand baskets of 
champagne, more than are produced in all the cham- 
pagne districts of Europe, are drank in this country. 
Where do these come from? Madeira is made by pass- 
ing the oil of whisky through carbon. Vinegar, beet- 
root, sulphuric acid and copperas, are used to make port 
wine. New York City alone, says the Tribune , annually 
manufactures wine to the value of eight million dollars. 
What is the result? The Report of the New York State 
Inebriate Asylum contains one answer. Here is the 
record of applications: “Clergymen, 39; judges, 8 ; 


OF EGBERT HAYWOOD OSBORNE. 165 

merchants, 340; physicians, 226; gentlemen, 240; rich 
men’s daughters, 1,300.” Here are facts , before which 
fancy droops its wildest flight, and folds its tireless wings. 
It is a miserable imposition on the people to say that the 
drugged and poisoned stuff sold as pure wine, pure 
brandy and pure whisky, have anything pure about them. 
The adulteration of liquors is a crime that should be pun- 
ished severely. Coculus Indicus, fox-glove, green cop- 
peras, henbane, jalap, lime, multum, nut-<ralls, grains of 
paradise, nux vomica, opium, oil of vitriol, potash, quas- 
sia, tobacco, wormwood : is it not a monstrous absurdity 
to style liquors composed of such vile abominations 
healthful beverages? Is it not a gigantic fraud, an awful 
crime, to traffic in deadly poisons? Can such deadly 
adulterations contain food for the hungry? Alcohol does 
not contain the constituent elements of the body ; cer- 
tainly not in any available form, and cannot, therefore, 
build it up. It has no iron or salts for the blood ; no 
gluten, phosphorus or lime for the bones; and noalbumen, 
a substance which is the basis of every living organism. 
And even if it had any of these elements, it is an estab- 
lished fact that the body eliminates alcohol from its pre- 
cincts, whether introduced as beer, wine or grog. The 
objector who says that “ alcohol contains carbon, oxygen 
and hydrogen, which are elements of the body, and there- 
fore that it will supply the wants of those products,” re- 
veals his complete ignorance of the first principles of vital 
chemistry. Animals cannot feed upon gases nor appro- 
priate charcoal; that is the peculiar function of the vege- 
table, the appointed organism for preparing the food of 
man. Drink alcoholic liquor, and in a few moments it 
can be smelt in the breath, or collected from the skin. 
Since alcohol will not stick to the living house, and is 
rapidly expelled from its organism, the belief that it can 
nourish is an utter delusion. I rejoice that British and 
American doctors are waking up to the evil of administer- 


166 


LIFE, LECTURES AND POETRY 


ing alcohol for all “ the ills that flesh is heir to.” Dr. 
John Higgenbottom, F. R. S., writes: — 

“ I have amply tried both ways. I gave alcohol in my 
practice for twenty years, and have now practiced with- 
out it for the last thirty years or more. My experience 
is, that acute disease is more readily cured without it, and 
chronic disease much more manageable. I have not found 
a single patient injured by the disuse of alcohol or a con- 
stitution requiring it; indeed, to find either, although I 
am in my seventy-seventh year, I would walk fifty miles 
to see such an unnatural phenomenon. If I ordered or 
allowed alcohol in any form, either as food or as medi- 
cine, to a patient, I should certainly do it with a felo- 
nious intent.” 

Testimony of J. W. Baumont , M. Zb, L. R. C. P ., 
Bdin ., Lecturer on Materia Medica in Sheffield Medical 
School , etc., etc.: “Besides inducing an inflammatory 
condition of the system, alcohol perverts the blood — 
diseases it — and it is owin£ to this circumstance that 
many chronic complaints are made worse and more 
prolonged by the wines, ales and other liquors ordered 
habitually by medical attendants. I have treated several * 
thousands of cases, of all kinds, occurring in general 
practice, without alcoholic liquors of any kind, and have 
been gratified with the successful results. The medicines 
lake effect more potently, and answer their end better. 

If I must tell the truth, it is I who am the sufferer by 
my non-alcoholic treatment, for the patients get well 
much sooner, and, as a natural consequence, my bills for 
professional attendance are considerably less. No doubt, 
if I were to follow the usual custom and order wines, 
ales and spirits, freely, the patients would be much longer 
under my care, and yield me a much larger revenue in 
the way of fees. Alcoholic liquors are bad in every way. 
They are bad for the sick, and worse for those who are 
well and in good health. They are not nutritious; they 


OF EGBERT HAYWOOD OSBORNE. 


167 


are not tonic ; they are not beneficial, in any sense of the 
word. They cause disease of body, disease of mind, and 
worse than all, disease of morals, and ought not only to 
be banished from every household, but put under the 
most uncompromising and stringent legal prohibition. ” 

I need not weary the patience of my readers by ac- 
cumulating testimony of this character. The ablest 
physicians on the continents of Europe and America have 
lifted up their warning voice from the halls of Science, 
against the constant and indiscriminate use of alcohol as 
a remedial agent in disease. One of the many forms by 
which intemperance feeds its victims, and opposes itself 
to the triumphs of temperance reform, are the mixtures 
prepared and sold for their proffered medical virtues, 
under the general name of “bitters.” Many who are 
otherwise friends of the cause of temperance, deem it 
proper to indulge in the use of these vile mixtures. That 
the body of all these bitters is alcohol, I need not pause 
to prove. But for the skeptical I simply present the 
testimony of Edward Wilder, the author of the ‘‘Famous 
Stomach Bitters,’ ’ proposing to cure a vast variety of 
diseases. I presume he understands the “ bitters ” ques- 
tion as well as any man. He says: — 

“ The body of all similar preparations is common raw 
whisky , or alcohol, which contains a large amount of 
fusil oil and other poisonous substances , while the body 
of Edivard Wilder's Stomach Bitters , \§ pure old Bour- 
bon, or copper-distilled whisky, the best and purest 
whisky known or produced. This fact at once recom- 
mends and places these bittters at the head of all other 
known preparations.” 

This is enough to warn every friend of temperance 
against all sorts of bitters. Professor Agassiz says: “ I 
know how important it is to a country to have vineyards 
to grow wine, and sound wine, and to be able, in that 
way, to drive out all intoxicating liquors. It is the most 


168 LIFE, LECTURES AND POETRY 

excellent temperance movement that was ever started on 
this continent. ” 

Hon. E. W. Bull says : “ I need not say ( what all the 
world knows) that the people of the wine-growing coun- 
tries are the most temperate on the face of the earth/’ 

“Now there is some proof of these sayings here in 
New England. Take cider, as used by nearly all of our 
farmers from boyhood to old age, and we shall not find 
one in a hundred that is a drunkard; indeed, we hardly 
know of one in all our acquaintance .” — Correspondence 
Massachusetts Ploughman. 

The evidence upon the subject of “ Domestic Wine,” 
as the “most excellent temperance movement that was 
ever started on this continent,” and the “ temperance of 
the people of the wine-growing regions ” — as stated by 
Professor Agassiz, and Hon. E. W. Bull, may be set 
aside by testimony equally worthy of respect and confi- 
dence. France produces eight hundred million gallons 
of wine in a year, and at the same time consumes more 
brandy than any other nation in proportion to her popula- 
tion. Here we discover a reason for the degradation, mis- 
ery and godlessness that characterize that country. You 
have heard of the vine-clad hills of sunny France. France 
is a “ wine-growing country.” Hon. E. W. Bull says: “ I 
need not say (what all the world knows) that the people 
of the wine-growing countries are the most temperate on 
the face of the earth.” Look at the statistics which Mr. 
Delavan has recently collected in that country. The 
production of intoxicating drinks of all kinds, in France, 
amounted, in 1865, to $1,516,746,000 gallons, which, 
divided by the population of the whole Empire (38,000,- 
000), gives an average of about forty gallons to each 
individual, from infancy up, costing in American dollars, 
$1,516,546,000, for a single year's drinking. The dis- 
tinguished American author, Cooper, says: “ In passing 
between Paris and London, I have been more struck by 


OF EGBERT HAYWOOD OSBORNE. 169 

drunkenness in the streets of the latter than in those of 
the former.’ ’ Horace Greeley, writing from Paris: 
“ Wine will intoxicate — does intoxicate — and that there 
are confirmed drunkards in Paris and throughout France, 
is notorious and undeniable.” A French writer, M. 
Le Clerc, testifies to the same facts. A French maga- 
zine, called “ The Work-.a-Day World of France,” 
says: “ Drunkenness is the beginning and end of life in 
the great French industrial centers. It is estimated that 
at Lille twenty-five out of every one hundred men, and 
twelve out of every one hundred women, are confirmed 
drunkards.” Charles Dickens says: “ The wine-shops 
are the colleges and chapels of the poor in France. The 
wine-shops breed, in a physical atmosphere of malaria 
and a moral pestilence of envy and vengeance, the men 
of revolution and crime.” Dr. E. N. Kirk, of Boston, 
says: “ I never saw such systematic drunkenness as I 
saw in France during a residence of sixteen months. 
The French go about it as a business: I never saw so 
many women drunk.” John Plummer, a writer in the 
Alliance News , writing of Lent in Paris, says: “The 
infamous orgies of which many of the cafes and caba- 
rets are then the scene, are of an almost incredible 
nature. It is lust and drunkenness in their foulest 
aspect.” A member of the French National Assembly, 
in 1850, Count Montalembert, said: “ Where there is a 
wine-shop, there are the elements of disease, and the 
frightful source of all that is at enmity with the interests 
of the workman.” What is true of France is true of 
Italy , Switzerland, Germany and Persia , that Paradise 
of vineyards. I stand prepared to prove this, by such 
men as Hillard, author of “Six Months in Italy;” 
Professor Butler, E. C. Delavan, Esq., Rev. E. S. Lacy, 
Professor W. F. Warren, Rev. J. G. Cochran, mission- 
ary from Persia ; Rev. Mr. Labaree, also a missionary in 
Persia. Wine is a fruitful source of intemperance. It 


170 


LIFE, LECTURES AND POETRY 


is now just what it was when God said, “ wine is a 
mocker.” It was not rum, brandy, gin, that was a 
“ mocker,” but wine! Both experience and observation 
verify this Divine denunciation. And by no sort of 
alchemy or magical charm can that be made a blessing 
which the God of Heaven has pronounced a “ mocker.” 
I give, just here, a few of the divine warnings and com- 
mands upon this subject. This is God’s thunder and 
lightning. See it ! Hear it ! Heed it ! Beware how you 
misinterpret it! “Wine is a mocker, strong drink is 
raging; and whosoever is deceived is not wise. Be not 
among wine-bibbers; among riotous eaters of flesh; for 
the drunkard and glutton shall come to poverty. Who 
hath woe? who hath sorrow? who hath contentions? who 
hath babbling? who hath wounds without cause? who 
hath redness of eyes? They that tarry long at the wine, 
they that go to seek mixed wine. Look not then upon 
the wine when it is red, when it giveth its color in the 
cup, when it moveth itself aright. At last it biteth like 
a serpent, and stingeth like an adder. They also have 
erred through wine, and through strong drink, are out 
of the way; the priest and the prophet have erred 
through strong drink, they are swallowed up of wine, 
thej r are out of their way through strong drink, they 
err in vision, they stumble in judgment. Wine and new 
wine take away the heart. Woe unto him that giveth 
his neighbor drink, and puttest the bottle to him, and 
maketh him drunken <ilso, that thou mayest look on 
their nakedness. It is good neither to cut flesh, nor to 
drink wine, nor anything whereby thy brother stumbleth, 
or is offended, or is made weak. Nor thieves, nor 
cowards, nor drunkards, nor revilers, nor extortioners, 
shall inherit the Kingdom of God. God has a Church in 
this world, his appointed agency for salvation. His 
Church militant is his expressed knowledge of human 
needs, and his expressed wisdom touching man’s ruin 


OF EGBERT HAYWOOD OSBORNE. 


171 


and the method of recovery. Through his Church God 
reaches the world with provisions and promises to save. 
We have taken the cause of missions and the Bible, 
Sunday-schools and tract societies, and other kindred 
causes, into the bosom of the Church, while we have 
rather ignored the cause of temperance reform. We 
give freely of our means to support all other objects; 
we meet the claims of temperance with words of barren 
approval, or we do nothing to promote its influence and 
perpetuity. Brethren, in the bonds of a holy Gospel, I 
beseech you turn not away from the pleadings of tem- 
perance reform in our land. See what fearful ravages 
intemperance is making throughout the borders of our 
beloved Zion. Search the causes which demand disci- 
pline in the Church, and see how many of those causes 
may be traced directly or indirectly to the influences of 
strong drink. Let the wants of Zion rouse you to 
action. Stand in the front ranks of this noble Chris- 
tian work. You owe it to your country; you 
owe it to your fellow-man ; you owe it to the 
cause of Christ ; you owe it to your sons and your 
daughters, to take a firm, bold, active stand in behalf 
of temperance. “ No man liveth to himself.” Chris- 
tianity is sublime, unselfish and generous in its ever- 
expanding influences for good. Christ went about doing 
good. Millions of Adam’s fallen race demand the out- 
lay of all your powers, to reclaim the wandering, lift up 
the fallen, and save the lost. Earth holds no evil so 
monstrous as the evil of intemperance. Is there no 
remedy for this evil? From the murderer’s cell, from 
amid the lonely clanking of his chains, a wail is heard 
smiting upon the human heart, to open its sealed fountains 
of sympathy. The sorrowful cry reaches every patriot, 
every philanthropi-t, every Christian in the land. Is 
there no remedy? From the gallows, with rope about his 
neck, the red-handed assassin tells the story of his early 


172 LIFE, LECTURES AND POETRY 

hopes, his boyhood’s home, his mother’s love, his man- 
hood’s princely dreams, his tempting and his fall, and ere 
he is launched into eternity, he shrieks out the dread, 
appalling interrogatory, and pours his dying wail into 
every passing wind, “ Is there no remedy?” From the 
gloomy cells of the penitentiary, thousands of voices shout 
their despairing cry in the ears of the outer world, “ Is 
there no remedy ? ” From the shadows of the poor-house, 
where human charity doles its alms, we hear a wail of 
blighted hopes, a tale of woe, smiting the soul into tears, 
“Is there no remedy?” From the broken-hearted 
widow, in the solemn weeds of her mourning, with all 
the visions of earthly beauty blasted about her, we hear 
the dread demand, “ Is there no remedy? ” From thou- 
sands and tens of thousands of worse than orphan chil- 
dren, we hear the tearful appeal, in tones of sorrow that 
would melt the rocks; from the felon’s dungeon, from, 
the lonely asylums of insanity, from the records of our 
criminal courts, the shout is heard over all our land — 
“Oh! tell us, tell us! is there no remedy?” From 
every hill and valley, every outstretched plain, from the 
city’s crowded mart, from the lovely village, from cot- 
tage, hut and palace, everywhere, we hear a shout like 
the roar of many troubled winds and stormy waves, 
“ Oh ! tell us, ye friends of humanity, ye champions of 
religion, patriots of our country, in the name of God and 
human suffering, is there no remedy?” Yes! thank 
God ! there is a remedy: “ Touch not, taste not, handle 
not.” Tell it to the broken-hearted wife, that she may 
send up to heaven her grateful thanks. Tell it to the 
worse than fatherless children, that they may rejoice. 
Tell it to that brave and generous-hearted man, who is 
battling hard against the siren allurements of dissipation. 
Tell it to the gray-haired fathers and venerable mothers, 
who are weeping over the prodigal wanderings of their 
noble sons. Shout it from the mountains ; roll it over 
I 


OF EGBERT HAYWOOD OSBORNE. 173 

the hills and valleys; proclaim it through the thorough- 
fares and pathways of earth ; let the glad intelligence flash 
along the electric wires of thought that belt the world ; 
send it sounding along the thickly peopled streets of the 
city; let its heavenly echo thrill every home, and beat in 
every bounding heart: there is, thank God! there is a 
remedy — “ touch not, taste not, handle not.” This will 
make you sober, and keep you sober. Dear reader, do 
you acknowledge that intemperance is evil, and only evil? 
a physical, intellectual, moral, national evil? Do you con- 
fess that the losses of intemperance are almost countless ? 
loss of money, loss of time, loss of business, loss of health, 
los9 of feeling, loss of conscience, loss of character, loss 
of happiness, loss of self-respect, loss of mind, loss of 
life, loss of the soul? Is this true? Are the halls of the 
national Legislature a guilty caricature of greatness, 
patriotism and virtue, a theater of drunken harlequins, 
shouting their fiery spleen over the wreck of constitu- 
tional liberty and law? Are there seven hundred thou- 
sand drunkards reeling through the United States of 
America? Has God’s green earth been made a land of 
graves, into whose hopeless shadows sixty thousand 
human beings are hurled annually by intemperance ? Are 
the names of its unhappy victims registered upon the 
bloody calendar of crime, scrawled upon the dungeon’s 
wall, the maniac’s cell, the felon’s prison? Do the grand- 
est intellects of earth wither at its fiery touch, and the 
most eloquent tongue wag the broken sentences of idiocy? 
Does intemperance squander property, ruin health, cor- 
rode feeling, sear the conscience, corrupt the heart, blast 
the character, wreck the intellect, destroy life, damn the 
soul? Does intemperance destroy domestic peace, dark- 
ening home with hopeless agony, and drenching the 
hearts of life’s loved ones with tears? Does intemper- 
ance poison all the streams of national prosperity, drain 
the fountain of love, fill the soul with discord and hate, 


174 


LIFE, LECTURES AND POETRY 


and kindle the avenging passion of malice in the fallen 
soul? Does its vengeance crouch in the shadow of the 
wall, and drip from the reeking blade of the assassin? 
Does it crowd this beautiful earth with widows and 
orphans? Does it drive its homeless, penniless wander- 
ers over all the land? Does it bathe its fiery tongue in 
slander, and dip its hand in innocent blood? Does it 
shout its drunken orgies over the murdered and mangled 
forms of wives and children? Does it fill our land with 
mourning? Does it throw its awful curse upon the halls 
of legislation, the courts of justice, the halls of learning, 
the churches of the land? Does it blight and blast, and 
damn with pitiless vengeance, everything it touches? 
Every humane heart responds, “ Alas ! alas! it is true, 
too painfully, bitterly true.” And will you, O brother 
man, sit there, a pulseless spectator of all this wide-wasting 
woe, and move no step to stay the tide of death and ruin 
that is sweeping over your country? Will you breathe 
no word to warn the young, stretch forth no kindly 
hand to lift up the fallen, speak no tone of gentle love 
to woo the fallen back to duty’s pure path? Are you a 
patriot? do you love your country? are you a philan- 
thropist, and do you love your fellow-man? Are you a 
Christian? God help you, will you not shout to the 
tempted, “Dash it down! ” and to the fallen, “Up! 
up, brother, to the mount of grand endeavor, and battle 
for the royal rights of manhood ! ” Would you not pour 
water upon the red flames that were consuming the home 
of your friend? Would you not warn him of some 
dangerous foeman, who had sworn to take his life, and 
who had taken the life of thousands? Would you not 
defend his good name against the poisoned breath and 
slime-words of slander? Would you not snatch the dag- 
ger from his hand, or the pistol from his grasp, if, in a 
moment of madness, he would take his own life? Yes, 
yes, you would do all this. And will you meet the ap- 


OF EGBERT HAYWOOD OSBORNE. 


175 


peals of suffering humanity, the mighty wants of the age, 
the necessity of a vast temperance reform in our land, 
with a simple word of cold and inactive approval? or, 
will you not give to this cause your noblest efforts, your 
active, earnest energies? Will you not throw yourself 
in the van of the mighty conflict, and shout to the thou- 
sands all about you : — 

“ In the world’s broad field of battle, 

In the bivouac of life, 

Be not like dumb driven cattle — 

Be a hero in the strife ! ’ ’ 

I know not what others may do in this work of love and 
humanity. Experience and observation have made me an 
advocate of temperance reform. I would be blinder than 
an idiot not to hear the wail of its woe, or read aright its 
fiery lessons, carved and burnt into the soul. In the 
awful mystery of human life our mistakes, and perhaps 
even our sins, are sometimes, by a mysterious Providence, 
made instruments to educate us for immortality and lead 
us captive in the path of duty. Experience becomes to 
the frail and erring a pillar of cloud by day, and a pillar 
of fire by night — the brazen serpent, the smitten rock. 
If we will not hear its lessons, walk in its light, alas for 
our future ! We close our eyes to shut out the vision of 
the far to cornel 

“ Thou sparkling bowl, thou sparkling bowl, 

Though lips of bards thy brim may press, 

And eyes of beauty o’er thee roll, 

And song and dance thy power confess, 

I will not touch thee, for there clings 
A scorpion to thy side which stings! ” 

Mothers, wives, daughters, sisters of my own South- 
land, I plead vvith you to use that grand and solemn in- 
fluence which God has crowned you with, in rolling the 


176 LIFE, LECTURES AND POETRY 

wild waves of drunkenness from your homes. You are 
the chief sufferers, the chief mourners by the tombs of 
your dead. I honor your heroic courage, which gave your 
earth-idols to the bloody waves of battle, and offered all 
you loved in life upon your country’s altar. For the sake 
of that holy and beautiful religion, whose precepts your 
pure piety adorns; for the sake of those homes which 
your virtue, piety, intelligence and beauty have conse- 
crated; for the sake of your husbands and sons, your 
fathers and brothers — whose honor is so indissolubly in- 
terwoven with your happiness — let me beseech you to 
give your influence for the promotion of the cause of 
temperance. Oh ! breathe a prayer that God may stay the 
downward steps of a prodigal son, a drunken husband, a 
fallen brother, a blighted father. Clasp your white hands 
in agony of prayer, that God may crown this great work 
with victory. Lift up your voices and shout — 

“ Strike! for your altars and your fires! 

Strike ! for the green graves of your sires ! 

Strike ! till the last armed foe expires, 

God and your native land! ” 

Friends of humanity, champions of religion, patriots of 
our sorrowful land ! we need your influence, we need 
your intelligence to counsel, your example to rouse to 
action, and your words of cheerful hope to forward us on 
in our glorious work! Oh! let the worse than widowed 
heart in the desolations of its woe, plead with you. Oh ! 
let the tears of worse than orphan children plead with 
you. Oh ! let the wretchedness and hopeless want which 
darkens the cheerless home of the drunkard, plead with 
you. Oh ! let the misery which looks out of tearful eyes, 
and the white agony stamped on the sad faces of young 
children, plead with you. Oh! let the bleak despair 
which clouds the brow and glooms the heart of woman, 
plead with you. Oh! let the awful desolations which are 


OF EGBERT HAYWOOD OSBORNE. 


177 


hurling their ocean billows of ruin over all our sunny 
land, plead with you. Oh ! let the memory of some dead 
friend, some noble brother, some loved husband or father, 
over whose life this demon wove its fiery spell, plead with 
you. Oh ! let the deep love you bear your children, your 
fellow-man, plead with you. Oh ! let the solemn respon- 
sibilities of time and the awful interests of eternity, plead 
with you ! Oh 1 let the woe which glooms the drunkard’s 
life, and palls the drunkard’s grave, plead with you. 
Oh ! let the warm and generous impulses which throb 
within your hearts, plead with you. Oh! let human- 
ity, in tears, plead with you. May the spirit of Almighty 
mercy wake within every soul the holy sentiment of 
pitying love for perishing man, and rouse you to a sense 
of danger and of duty, point out the gulf and lift the 
warning cry. 

May God strengthen the feeble and pardon the erring. 
In God is our trust, and in the name of the Lord of Hosts 
we set up our banners. In the name of humanity we 
take our stand by the post of duty. Sons of Temperance, 
hang your banners on the outer wall ! Form your solid 
columns in the van of the conflict, your battle slogan — 
“ Pro Deo, pro patria.” 


BREVITIES. 

Man without an honest fame 
“ Is but gilded loam ” or painted clay ; ” 
“ He who robs me of my good name ” 
Takes all of worth away — 

Takes from me life’s only prop, 

In misery’s cup the o’erflowing drop ! 
Leaves me on life’s stormy sea, 

A broken wreck in misery ! 


12 


178 


LIFE, LECTURES AND POETRY 


On this once fair page I see a blot, 

Nor can I wipe away its trace, 

Gentle reader, oh, forget it not, 

In life’s rugged race, 

If on the whiteness of thy name there falls a stain 
All earth’s waters may not wash it out again. 
Christ’s blood can cleanse from every blot, 

His smile can cheer the loneliest lot. 

Ripley, Miss., Feb. 6th, 1863. 


I never saw a raging storm, 

But ’twas followed by a calm ; 

I never saw a day so warm 

It was not cooled by evening’s balm. 


THE DYING YEAR- 11 O’CLOCK AT NIGHT, DEC. 81, 1862. 

“ The light of other days has faded ” 

And all their glories passed, 

And grief with heavy wings hath shaded, 

Their hopes too bright to last. 

— Old Song. 

The fading lights of the dying year, 

Are flitting sadly round me now; 

I mourn o’er the past and drop a tear, 

O’er many a perished hope and broken vow. 

The dying year with its annals red, 

Tells me of naught, save the buried dead. 

The flash of steel on the tented field, 

The sulphurous smoke of crimson war, 

Where the victor stood, and the wounded reeled, 
And the clash of arms was heard afar. 

The blended tones of victory and defeat 
O’er the bloody pages darkly meet. 


OF EGBERT HAYWOOD OSBORNE. 


179 


Wild agony weeps no soothing tear 

By the graves of the loved and gallant dead. 

Who sleep in the soldiers hallowed bier, 

Who died to stay the invader’s tread. 

A nation’s tears embalm each hero’s name, 

And grants to each the benison of fame. 

The dying year, like a tempest cloud, 

Charged with the lightning’s deadly blast, 

Hath palled the land in its funeral shroud, 

And marked with blood the year that’s past. 

Oh ! dreary year, thou hast passed away, 

And hope looks forward to some brighter day. 

The clash of arms, the tread of the warrior’s steed, 
The shout of triumph, and the cry of pain, 

Blend where the battling heroes bleed, 

And marshaled armies thunder o’er the plain. 
Angel of peace, will thy pinions ever wave 
Above the victor’s home, the hero’s grave? 

’Mid all the years of my life’s sad past. 

The dying one was saddest of them all, 

E’en now its farewell sigh like the tempest blast 
Wails o’er me sad as Eden’s dreary fall. 
Relentless war aloft its bloody banners wave, 

And heralds thousands to an early grave. 

O’er the annaled stories of the dying year, 

Clio sits brooding o’er the gallant dead ; 

Oh ! muse of history, shed a farewell tear, 

Above the urn of happier days forever fled. 

As the past hath been, will the future be, 

All dark and dreary as a stormy sea. 

Amid the gloom of buried ages gone, 

The annals of the far-off past, 


180 


LIFE, LECTURES AND POETRY 


’Mid mighty eras perished — flown, 

Thou wilt be still mighty to the last. 

The memory of thy deeds will ever be 
An ever restless, ever stormy sea. 

Unborn millions shuddering will gaze 
Far back upon thy stormy page, 

And mark war’s remorseless blaze, 

The bubbling blood — the bitter rage, 

That fed the avenging fires of hate, 

Cold, stern, and pitiless as fate. 

But hark ! ’tis the farewell moan of the perished 
year, 

Oh! let me weep o’er golden moments slighted, 
Let me weep the penitential tear 

O’er broken vows and hopes forever plighted. 
What the past hath been, I know ; the future 
none can tell, 

A welcome to the new year, to the old a sad 
farewell. 

Ripley, Tippah County, Miss. 


[Written for the Brownsville Bee . J 

LEAYES FROM MY PORTFOLIO — THE BIBLE. 

The Bible contains the oldest books in the world. The 
first portions of it were written thirty-three hundred 
years ago ; nearly one thousand years earlier than any 
other history. Herodotus and Thucydides, the oldest 
profane historians, were cotemporary with Ezra and 
Nehemiah, the last of the historians of the Old Testament. 
Between them and Moses, the author of the first five 
books of the Bible, there is an interval of nearly one 


OF EGBERT HAYWOOD OSBORNE. 


181 


thousand years. The poems of Homer and the Hesiod 
are somewhat more ancient than the history of Herod- 
otus, hut they were written nearly six hundred years 
after the time of Moses. The preservation of the Scrip- 
tures committed to tbe Jews, is to our mind an evidence 
of the providence of God. The Jews were a despised, 
persecuted people. Efforts were made by the Midianites, 
Philistines, Syrians, Egyptians, and Chaldeans to destroy 
them, and with them the holy records. During their sev- 
enty years captivity in Babylon their temple was burned ; 
the ark in which the original copy of the law had been 
kept, was destroyed; the glory of the Jewish worship 
perished, and their city being laid w 7 aste, continued' in 
that state for more than a hundred years (Neh. 2:17). 
But here amid this desolation we have traces of the won- 
derful preservation of the Scriptures (Dan. 9:2; Neh. 
8:1). Antiochus Epiphanes, when he took Jerusalem, 
murdered about 40,000 of its inhabitants, sold as many 
more to be slaves, and ordered that whoever was found 
with the book of the Law, should be put to death; and 
every copy of it that could be found was burned. This 
lasted three years and yet the Scriptures were preserved. 
The disposition of the Jews to idolatry before the Baby- 
lonish captivity, was calculated to endanger the safety of 
the sacred Scripture. Jezebel attempted the destruction 
of the prophets of the Lord and with them the sacred 
books. In a subsequent history Josiah, a pious king of 
Judah, and Hilhiah, the high priest, were destitute of an 
authentic copy of the Scriptures, until the latter found 
it in the house of the Lord (2d Kings 22 :8; 2d Chronicles 
34:14). Under circumstances like these it seems re- 
markable that the Scriptures of the Jews are translated 
into more than a hundred languages, and many millions 
of copies of them are now in circulation, while if we 
except a few works of the Egyptians, which no one can 
yet decipher, not a single book of the most flourishing 


182 


LIFE, LECTURES AND POETRY 


nation as the Chaldeans, Phoenicians, etc., who lived at 
the same time with them, has reached us. 

The agreement of the several parts of the Bible with 
each other is remarkable from a mere human standpoint. 
This agreement seems the more remarkable when we 
remember the writers of the Bible, and the vast varieties 
of subjects about which they wrote. The Bible was 
written by many different persons, of different abilities, 
station and education. Moses was learned in all the 
wisdom of the Egyptians; David and Solomon were 
kings; Daniel a minister of the State; Ezra, a priest and 
a scribe; Amos, a herdsman; Matthew, a tax-gatherer; 
Luke, a physician; Paul, a learned Pharisee; Peter and 
John, fishermen. Those all lived at different times, and 
could have had no intercourse with each other. 

Amid the roll of ages, the rush of generations, the rise 
and fall of empires, this wonderful book pours the tide 
of its glory, the light of its splendor, full-orbed over the 
destinies of men, and the fate of nations. Its jurisprud- 
ence tempers the genius of justice with the gentle spirit 
of mercy, and sanctifies the holiest endearments of social 
life with the power of truth and love. It consecrates 
the marriage vow with the sanctities of trust and devo- 
tion, and gives to parental tenderness, filial love and 
fraternal affection, deeper sentiments of kindliness and 
tenderness. It takes woman by the hand and leads her 
from the servitude and suffering imposed by supersti- 
tion and idolatry, up to the shining circle of social and 
religious duty, as man’s “ helpmate,” not his cowering 
slave. It penetrates the conscience, softens the heart, 
and convinces the reason, by arguments and lessons as 
solemn as the judgment, as true as death, and as vast as 
eternity. It leads the doubting to the shrine of truth, 
and calls the erring to the throne of mercy. Its promises 
arch the life that now is, and stretches away amid the 
endless verities of eternity. It unfolds the only system 


OF EGBERT HAYWOOD OSBORNE. 


183 


of theology worthy of human respect. Its historic rolls 
commenced with the dawn of creation, and the songs of 
its triumph echo amid the thrones and hierarchies of 
heaven. The evangeline of its glory is the prologue of 
earth, the epilogue of heaven. God is its author, salva- 
tion its theme, and man the recipient of its favor and 
mercy. Its testimony is unfolded by precept, and im- 
pressed by example. It reveals to every wanderer upon 
earth the path of duty, and offers to every tempted soul 
a crown of life, an immortality of bliss when the sun of 
earthly being shall set to rise and shine on other worlds. 
Before its divine truth, the rejoicing heathen casts his 
idols to the moles and bats and adds his heart’s high 
homage to the worshipers of earth and heaven. A single 
precept from its divine teachings would image the peace 
and purity of heaven upon the dark and bloody brow of 
earth. “ Thou shalt love the Lord thy God with all thy 
heart, soul, mind and strength, and thy neighbor as thy 
self.” The laws of Solon and Lycurgus, the philosophy 
of Polybius and Pliny, the ethics of Seneca and the 
dreams of Socrates, Numa and Minos, the homilies of 
men, the poetry and eloquence of earth, offer no such 
rule of moral action, at once simple, merciful and just. 
The moral landscape which this wonderful book unrolls 
before the entranced and delighted gaze of men surpasses 
the dreams of poesy, the genius of art, the imagination 
of men, or the conception of angels. “ God only knows 
the love of God.” Charity and forgiveness are the great 
lessons of its divine teachings, love to God and love to 
man the grand centrifugal and centripetal forces of its 
divine testimony. Never was the heavenly volume 
forged in the teeming brain of the visionary enthusiast. 
God-guarded, it has swept through fields of blood, and 
oceans of flames. Over it the red waves of battle have 
surged. Its martyred worshipers sent their victorious 
shout sounding down through the world’s ages, amid the 


184 


LIFE, LECTURES AND FOETRY 


mouldering ruins of idolatry, the crumbling shrines of 
superstition, and the desolate alias of skepticism, to 
cheer the doubting, strengthen the weak, and comfort 
the distressed. Its songs of peaceful immortality have 
been hymned over the graves of the dead, and the 
jubilee of its glory is heard in heaven to-day, the mighty 
oratorio of redemption, the song of Moses and the 
Lamb. 


“HOME — SWEET HOME.” 

There is no word in the vernacular of a babbling world, 
in the mother-tongues of many nations, that gleams with 
such cheering beauty, such calm and holy joy to the 
heart of the pilgrim wanderer, as that one blessed word — 
home. Inspiration can only rival its tender beauty, by 
pointing the restless spirit to the promised land and 
whispering the music word, “ heaven.” “ Home, Sweet 
Home,” was but the flaming up of the fires of memory, 
the genius of poetry, the wail of a yearning, gentle soul 
who pressed his pilgrim feet on stranger soil and wept 
his wants in that dear song, the heart picture of the home- 
less. We never hear it but our heart bleeds for the 
homeless one who sent it winged with beauty around the 
wide, unfeeling world. “ Home is not four square 
walls.” Home is not where we eat and sleep. This is 
the lowest idea of home. 

“ 'Tis home where’er the heart is, 

Where’er its living treasures dwell, 

In cabin or in princely hall, 

In forest haunt or hermit’s cell.” 

Many a way-worn wretch is homeless with a residence 
surrounded by all the luxuries and pageantries of wealth, 
homeless amid the gorgeous pomp of fashion and the 
pride of social standing. Wealth cannot purchase hap- 
piness, home, joy, any more than it can purchase brains 


OF EGBERT HAYWOOD OSBORNE. 


185 


for an ass, or wisdom for a fool. All the splendid para- 
phernalia of luxurious living cannot bring the blessed 
love-light to the eye, the glad smile of welcome to the 
lip, the radiant joy-greeting to the face, the musical 
laugh, the rippling song that floats out of blissful hearts. 
We have stood in the home of the rich — rich in all but 
joy — and felt the frozen formality, the joyless gloom of 
pompous etiquette ; the apples of the Dead Sea were not 
beautiful or more tasteless. Home is not home unwarmed 
by pure affection. Gentleness, patience, forbearance, 
love, these are the earth angels dwelling under the roof 
tree, clustering around the hearthstone and transforming 
the humblest home of poverty into a Bethel to the weary 
heart. Music, flowers, trailing vines and the faces of the 
gentle dead, looking out upon us with sainted eyes from 
the brownest wall, the old family Bible, the family altar 
of prayer, baptized with penitential tears and radiant 
with heavenly hopes. This is “ home, sweet home.” 
Home is woman’s empire. She does more to make it hell 
or make it Eden than all the world besides. Neatness, 
order, economy, and taste, go very far towards making 
the humblest home a beauty and a joy forever. Men’s 
hearts long to get back there, memory loves to dwell 
there. The soul goes there to garner the grandeur of 
brave endeavor for strength to meet the mightiest issues 
of life. If failure or defeat should come, the weary, sick 
heart yearns to fold its broken wings under the roof devo- 
tion — longs for the blessed calm, the pure sympathy, 
the loving words of encouragement. Oh, what does the 
man care for the outside roar of the wild waves of 
reproach, while the inner sanctuary of the heart is 
warmed and illuminated with fire from off the altar of 
love. To the true man there is earth’s heaven. He asks 
for no sweeter rest in the wilderness. Beyond the dark 
river, side by side the loving and the beloved will anchor 
in the crystal sea, where peace is perfect and love eternal. 


186 


LIFE, LECTURES AND POETRY 



Rev. Egbert H. Osborne 


OF EGBERT HAYWOOD OSBORNE. 


187 


TO THE NEW YEAR— 1ST JANUARY, 1863. 

The past is past, the present now is here, 

With its burdened argosies of thought 
and power, 

The past is slumbering in its dreamless bier, 

And now I’m toiling for the present hour. 

The past, the present, and the far to come 
Is all of Time’s remorseless sum. 

Dead hopes — the ghosts of perished pleasure 
Wander on the shore of the past, 

We dream of many a blighted treasure 

Of many a gentle face too beautiful to last. 
Fond memory weeps o’er things that were 
O’er life’s moments, once so cloudless fair. 

With the present now, strong will and proud 
endeavor, 

Toils up fame’s dark deceitful steep, 

Working out the soul’s forever and forever, 

Nor dreams that time will cradle fame to sleep, 
For down beneath the Lethean wave 
“ The paths of glory lead but to the grave.” 

“ The past is past,” the living present with its 
freighted bark 

Glides on o’er Time’s electric stream, 

And we may with its memories beautiful, or dark, 
And make our lives with splendor gleam. 

Oh ! let us up, up to the tented field, 

With sandaled feet, with sword and shield. 

Dark as the present and the future seems, 

Hope points us to the for to come, 

And sings of hallowed verities, where empty 
dreams, 

Nor mar the beauty of our other home. 


188 


LIFE, LECTURES AND POETRY 


Man's dim vision cannot fitly trace 
The future nor the spirit's resting place. 

We may not gain the future on time's tireless 
wing, 

We only sigh, and toil at the portals of to-day, 
Hoping that the morrow will its golden banners 
fling, 

Across the lonely shadows of life’s coming way, 
If we would spend the future with angels 
up above 

We must make the present luminous with love. 

The present now is here, the moments of to-day, 
We hear no message from to-morrow, 

And we can only think, and feel, and toil, and 
pray, 

That the future may be free from sorrow ! 

Bid farewell to the perished past, 

Press onward — upward — to the last. 

And when your dying hours come, 

As come they must to each and all, 

May winged spirits guide you home, 

Beyond earth’s funeral pall 
When your feet will ever be 
Planted on the 4 4 Crystal Sea.” 

Ripley, Miss. 


PATRIOT’S SONG- AIR: “ INGLESIDE.” 

Oh ! do not say that freedom’s dead, 
While lives one patriot band, 

Oh! do not say that freedom’s fled, 
From my dear native land. 


OF EGBERT HAYWOOD OSBORNE. 


Our gallant soldiers still are true, 

Our flag waves ’neath the sky 
Nor trails the dust our flag of blue, 
While justice reigns on high. 

Grant and his hired minions feel 
The power of our Lee ; 

When they see his flashing steel, 

It strikes for liberty. 

Our Johnson, Beauregard and Bragg, 
Cheatham and Hardee, 

Strong as our native mountain crag 
Will gain the victory. 

Many an honored name in dust 
Lies low on battle plains, 

No cenotaph, nor marble bust, 

Hallow their last remains. 

Urned in their country’s grateful heart 
Their deeds can never die ; 

Nor shall oblivion ever part, 

Their names from memory. 

When Lethean waters gulf the past, 
And earth is wrapt in gloom, 

And all its glories die at last, 

We’ll worship round their tomb. 
Our land is gloomed in dread alarms, 
Our homes are wrapt in flame, 

We trust in God and freemen’s arms 
To win our land a name. 

Oppression’s torch gleams on the sky, 
And tyrants chant their spell, 

Our worshipped children bleed and die 
Our sorrows none can tell. 


190 


LIFE, LECTURES AND POETRY 


On freedom’s altar still we lay, 

The loved of our idol band, 

And pray that freedom’s natal day 
May dawn upon our land. 

Bolivar, Term., January 1, 1865. 


LEISURE THOUGHTS. 

It is well for man to gather lessons of wisdom from 
“ old historic rolls,” to pore over the golden pages of 
thought, and learn from the living and the dead great 
truths. It is well to scan with an earnest eye the open 
volume of nature and mark the power and wisdom of 
God. ’Tis well to interpret the thoughts which flit across 
the “ human face divine,” and con the entablature of that 
learned and mystic volume. It is well to fathom all the 
sources of wisdom. But better far than lessons culled 
from books, from nature, from the face of man, are the 
stern and truthful lessons we gather from experience . 
Here we find no hieroglyphic lines, no empty carica- 
tures, but the lessons of experience are burnt into the 
soul in characters of fire. There is no mistaking its 
solemn impressiveness, nor doubting its truth. God 
grant me power to follow the unmistaken and ever-visible 
testimony of my experience — heart lessons. 

June 7, 1861. 


STRAY THOUGHTS AND SCRAPS BY THE WAY. 

Prejudice closes the eyes to beauty, shuts the ear to 
argument, and refuses the lips from utterances of char- 
ity. It degrades reason, dishonors judgment, and tram- 
ples upon the claims of goodness and the demands of 
merit and true worth. 


OF EGBERT HAYWOOD OSBORNE. 


191 


It is unjust because selfish, and refuses to pay respect 
to the just claims of truth and reason. Too proud to 
offer a reason, because too weak to give one, it rushes 
blindfold against all systems but its own, and attempts 
the utter ruin of all men who dare denounce the legiti- 
macy of its arrogant prerogatives. “Iam right and you 
are wrong/’ is the sum total of all its argumentation, the 
“ alpha and omega ” of its creed. 

It sits in judgment and condemns without investiga- 
tion, argument or hearing, prejudges, and predamns. 

“ I do not like you, Dr. Fell, 

1 4 The reason why I cannot tell ; 

“ I do not like you, Dr. Fell.” 


TO MY LITTLE SON, E. E. 0. 

[Bolivar, Tenn., Nov. 24, 1864.] 

I claim the “ Sunny South ” as peculiarly my home. 
Here are all my interests, here I was born and educated 
Rnd married ! Her soil holds the bones of my ancestors 
and my children as hostages of my affection and fealty. 
I claim to be, and honestly believe I am, a true Demo- 
crat. I do not use the term in its partisan sense. Hon- 
oring and appreciating the genius of a democratic 
government, pure Americanism, I am prepared to desire 
the complete success of the great principle of self- 
government which is the foundation of all true republi- 
can governments. In a government where the people 
are the framers of all political economy, the arbiters of 
all law, the only legitimate rulers, intellectual and moral 
worth, standing and power, are the essential elements 
of the success and influence of a republican form of 
government. Ignorance and vice are the bane of indi- 
vidual and national character. If ever our government 
succeeds and outlives the prophecies of its enemies, we 


192 


LIFE, LECTURES AND POETRY 


must educate the hearts and heads of the rising genera- 
tion. To legislate for a nation is a solemn trust; to 
select suitable legislators demands the outlay of all the 
highest and best powers with which the people are pos- 
sessed. To place the right man in the right place upon 
the high principles of capability and integrity is surely 
no mean display of moral and intellectual foresight and 
knowledge. Scorning all the wiles of partisan intrigue, 
throwing aside all mere party views and personal preju- 
dices, looking at the future of the nation’s good, men 
should exercise the fearful power of elective franchise for 
the highest interests of the republic. If this is done the 
masses of the people must be enlightened by education 
and poverty must be no bar to the temple of science. 

Institutions of learning must spring up by the side of 
every church in the land, the pulpit, and the school- 
room ; the minister of God and the instructor of youth 
must labor to inculcate great truths, enlightening the 
mind and purifying the heart of the young. We of 
the South boast of our democracy while we permit 
ourselves to contemplate with sentiments of indif- 
ference or applause, the most absurd classifications 
and distinctions in society, social differences based 
upon the absurdities of wealth and the follies of family 
pride. There always have been distinctions in society — 
there always will be, but a democratic government de- 
mands that those distinctions rest upon the possession of 
merit, true moral and intellectual worth, rather than the 
fraudulent claims of mere circumstantial or accidental 
dignity. American aristocracy is a paradox, a living 
libel upon the genius of our boasted republicanism. A 
moneyed aristocracy is the most absurd aping of great- 
ness and position, with which our country was ever 
cursed. Its aims and sickly affectations of dignity, its 
pompous pride and peacock glory, render it a most pitiful 
aspect, a most solemn caricature. Let there be, as there 


OF EGBERT HAYWOOD OSBORNE. 


193 


must be, distinctions in society, but let those distinctions 
not dishonor the government and outrage common sense; 
let them rest upon the solid and enduring foundations of 
virtue, goodness, humanity and intellect. An enlight- 
ened mind and a pure heart should be the only standard 
of distinction reared in a republican land. The pitying 
smile of derision, or the scorpion scourge of public 
opinion, should whip the pompous idiot into a sense of 
decency and duty who dared to arrogate to himself supe- 
rior claims because he was forced to pay a heavier tax 
than his neighbor or, forsooth, he claimed remote kin- 
dredship to some departed dignitary of the land. Some 
man whom the people made great by their suffrages — 
shall he now scorn the means that made his family great? 

“Oh! fools and slow of heart.” 

You see, my dear son, that I have addressed the fore- 
going truths to yourself. It is more than probable that I 
will go the way of all the earth before you reach the 
estate of manhood. My failing health and growing 
weakness admonish me of the uncertainty of life, the 
certainty of death — at this present writing you are not 
old enough — your intellect not sufficiently enlightened 
and enlarged to comprehend as fully as I would wish, 
the great truths involved in the social distinctions of 
society. I would not have you a demagogue pandering 
merely to the ignorant rabble — nor would I have you 
an agrarian envying the rich their riches. I would have 
you to remember that the only true distinction in life is 
forever in favor of moral and intellectual worth. 
Family respectability is a blessing — that family is re- 
spected in its highest sense where the men were all 
honest and the women all virtuous — -this forms the 
crowning glory of family respectability. If they add to 
their honesty and virtue the gifts of rare intellectual en- 
dowments, great talents and attainments, so much the 

13 


194 LIFE, LECTURES AND POETRY 

better. If they are possessed of wealth honestly made 
or inherited, all right ; but the one thing needful, the great 
crowning glory of family respectability is, as I have 
stated, honest men and virtuous women. All other dis- 
tinctions are the arrogancies of folly and false pride, 
mere empty claims of greatness — fancy’s tinsel garniture 
of words and sounds, empty and meaningless, barren as 
the brain that conceives them to be noble, good or great. 

I would have you to depend upon your own energies 
for future greatness and future usefulness. You must 
become the architect of your own fortune. Put your 
trust in God and do your duty and all will be well. 
Man is an animal. A gentleman is the rarest species of 
the genus homo to be met with nowadays. Occasionally 
you meet with one and he seems like a nondescript in 
society. The vulgarities and false claims to gentility 
which surround him render him conspicuous amid the 
masses only for eccentricity and his politeness becomes a 
laughing stock for fools. I care not how high may be 
your intellect, how superior your attainments — without 
the manners of a gentleman you cannot succeed in life. 
Kindness is the great law of true politeness — a generous 
consideration for the wants of others. Selfishness is the 
curse of society. A man thoroughly selfish cannot exer- 
cise the godlike principles of kindness and generosity, 
cannot by any possible means, become a thoroughly ac- 
complished gentleman. Many men claim to be gentle- 
men who are guilty of habitually indulging in many very 
ungentlemanly acts. Vulgar language — cursing, dram- 
drinking, are popular sins; these are gross immoralities, 
violative of the first principles of a true gentleman, and 
no real gentleman would be guilty of them. It matters 
not what circles of society he may move in, how well con- 
nected he may be, how popular he is with the people, 
how rich, if he permits himself to blaspheme the name 
of God, or use vulgar, low, filthy language, or indulge 


OF EGBERT HAYWOOD OSBORNE. 


195 


in the pernicious and ruinous habit of dram-drinking, 
you may set him down as no gentleman. He may even 
be kind, generous and unselfish in his deportment with 
his fellow-men, yet these gross and vicious indulgences 
mar all his virtues and stamp him as unworthy the com- 
panionship of real gentlemen. Be kind to the poor and 
treat the rich according to their personal deservings with- 
out regard to their moneyed position. Never give, never 
merely submit, to a gross insult. Remember that per- 
sonal cowardice is incompatible with the character of a 
gentleman, moral heroism is an exalted virtue, brute 
courage is only a beastly possession. If a man infinitely 
below you insult you, treat it with contempt — if one who 
moves in your own circle insult you without cause, de- 
mand satisfaction. If he be a gentleman and insulted 
you without cause, be assured that he deemed his cause 
sufficient. 

[The concluding portion of this writing cannot be 
found.] 


DOMESTIC PEACE. 

Home! What an unmeasured depth of gladness there 
is in that little word ! 

How lovingly its music tone falls on the weary heart. 
What fond and beautiful associations cluster gently about 
the hearthstone memories of the perished past ! When 
the mind and body are weary and worn with the toils 
and cares of life’s battle ; when, disgusted with the false 
glare of the world’s proffered friendship, and no longer 
lured by the world’s selfish greeting, how sweet it is to 
leave its blandishments, the dust and smoke of life’s evil- 
aired conflict, and know there is one cloudless spot, one 
calm retreat, far removed from the mad and merciless 
selfishness of the world, and fenced about with sweet 
and holy peace, confidence and love. “ ’Tis home wher- 


196 LIFE, LECTURES AND POETRY 

e’er the heart is.” Wherever the heart’s treasures — its 
loved ones, are — there is home. Wife, children, home, 
heaven, these are golden words. The spirit of poesy has 
hallowed them. Sweet memories and glorious hopes 
cluster about them. Yet human language is too feeble 
to “ gild refined gold, paint the lily, smooth the ice or 
add perfume to the violet.” Domestic peace, peace in our 
homes, peace around our firesides and in our national 
councils for each other’s mutual good, peace in every 
look and word and act. No jarring, no sneers, no cold 
words, no strife, but sweet, holy, harmonious peace. 
Oh ! this is an ante-part of heavenly peace, this types the 
unclouded peace of the soul’s higher being. Each home 
where the white-winged messenger dwells is an oasis 
amid the Sahara of life, a music tone upon its wailing 
storms, a ray of heaven’s brightness. May our home, 
though humble, be full of peace, my darling. 

March 6, 1858. 


SAD. 

How sad it is that the dreary lessons of experience, 
with all their crushing burdens of desolation, bring with 
them no lasting evidences of good, no enduring princi- 
ples of peace. Man turns from the banquet and the festal 
throng of pleasure, the merry laugh, the gay jest, the 
sparkling wit, the ruby wine, and gazing back upon the 
expiring lamps which dimly light the halls of revelry, 
and smiting his heated, throbbing brow, he pours hot 
curses on his folly bewails his weakness, damns his 
thirst for pleasure, and vows to tread those haunts no 
more, and yet a few brief waning moons will find him 
there, his voice the wildest ’mid the gathered throng, there 
to pile fresh agony upon his bleeding heart, there to 
bring fresh gusts of sorrow from the home of woe. 
YVhat power can exorcise the foul demon from the heart 


OF EGBERT HAYWOOD OSBORNE. 


197 


with its fiery teeth, eating up the spirit’s gladness? Spirit 
of Almighty power and goodness, mercy and love, will 
you tell me? 


THE PURSUIT OF HAPPINESS. 

The pursuit of earthly happiness forms the grand con- 
sideration of the whole human family. How best to en- 
joy life should then form a question of vital interest to 
all. Men seek this great good at a hundred different 
shrines — wealth, fame, and sensual pleasure, form the 
three grand sources from which men seek happiness. 
Human experience, observation and the past history of 
the world prove beyond all controversy that wealth and 
fame and sensual enjoyment can bring no solid, no lasting 
enjoyment in their glittering train. The human soul 
rises up from amid its proud banquetings, its sick feasts, 
hungering and thirsting after the unattained happiness. 
In vain the soul searches on wearied wing for permanent, 
solid, enduring peace of mind. Earth’s uncounted re- 
sources of pleasure may be emptied at man’s feet, and 
still the soul turns away from all earth’s glories, pleasures, 
powers, wearied, worn and troubled. The religion of 
Christ alone can afford perfect peace to the soul. 


HOPE. 

Hope is the soul’s own anchorage amid the battling 
elements of life, when disappointments in thick battal- 
ions on the path, o’er which the ghostly visions of despair 
are hovering. Hope, the equipoising leverage, wakes 
into bounding life the slumbering majesty of mind, and 
points the laggard to the crown, flashing beyond the 
goal. Onward he struggles till his Eureka rings loud o’er 
the conquered foe. Hope leads us on through storms and 


198 LIFE, LECTURES AND POETRY 

gathering clouds, her angel hearts, crowded with desires 
immortal, and expectations which are mighty in their 
buoyant power, cheered on by faith’s sustaining sover- 
eignty. For faith is the unsealed fount, where hope 
quaffs the inspiration of her elysian dreams of future 
bliss, which forms that “good time coming” of earth’s 
weary ones. Will this goddess of bewildering witchery 
send her freighted barque far out o’er dark and stranger 
tides, in search of beauty’s isle, without faith guide her, 
voyaging o’er the deep of human destiny, to drop the 
shining anchor in the haven where shadows never fall nor 
the storm-god wails his dirge of death? How can the 
immortal soul hope for that which faith tells it lies be- 
yond the boundary of the unattainable, if the light of 
truth falls not upon the doubtings of the soul, to drive 
away its errors and its fears? Then, alas ! Faith, the soul’s 
king, hath no rock on which to plant her streaming ban- 
ners, no scroll to write her living testimonials on. So, 
hope cannot exist where truth is not, and faith hath no 
dwelling place. Hope’s loftiest anthems all are shouted 
from the pavilion’s temple of the truth. Her sweetest 
warblings all are sung, when faith’s living fires touch the 
spire’s lips. Hope is dead where truth and faith come not 
to speak the resurrection word and light the resurrection 
morn of being. Then truth and faith and hope, the 
soul’s trinity, may not live, and be divorced by the bald 
and barren logic of the world. These angel sisters find 
a home beneath the same roof-tree. 

If truth were dead, despair would rear its alpine 
shroud about the lifeless form of faith, and sprinkle dust 
upon her shining face, and hope would be a widowed 
thing, sobbing by the coffined ashes of the holy dead. 
Truth and faith and hope can never, never die. 

God is the father of this heavenly group ; they came 
to throw around our atom world and our apostate race 
some light from the holy city , of our God. To plant 


OF EGBERT HAYWOOD OSBORNE. 


199 


some Eden flowers where the hurricane of sin hath left 
its path of bleak and barren desolation. Then, dwell 
with us, nor leave us to the weary, wasting doubts and 
fears, which gloom the soul with clouds. Oh ! stay ever 
with us, fruits of the holy comforter ; open heaven on 
our dreary world and light us home to God, whence 
comes the Christian’s “ lively hope ” which is an anchor 
to the soul, sure, and steadfast ! Hear ye not that song 
of blessing from the far-gone solitudes of other times? 
How the ransomed 44 spirit shouts its jubilee of praise to 
the God and Father ” of the world’s redeemer who hath 
begotten us again to a lively hope by the “resurrection of 
our Savior from the dead to an inheritance incorruptible, 
undefiled, and that fadeth not away, reserved in heaven 
for those who are kept by the power of God through faith 
unto salvation ready to be revealed in the last day.” 
This gospel hope is the living hope of a dead world — 
dead in sin and sorrow. This hope hath for its basis 
deep and broad the truth, and he who hath faith in a 
risen Savior, rejoiceth in this hope, and he alone is kept 
by the power of the eternal Father through the might of 
faith. These are truths. 


HOME JOY. 

When the soul has been battling with the cares and 
sorrows and disappointments of life, moaning over the 
blighted hopes and crushed anticipations of earth, oh! 
how gladly, how rapturously does the wearied spirit flee 
away from life’s wild and fearful storm, to nestle away 
down in the hushed and holy depths of home joy. 
How it gladdens the soul to feel there is one eye will 
mark our coming and look brighter when we come. 
There are loving, hopeful, cheering words to soothe and 
charm and brighten life’s rugged path ; sunny smiles, 


200 


LIFE, LECTURES AND POETRY 


like the bow of future promise hung out in heaven to 
brighten the clouds of life. 

True hearts, overflowing with love, honest, deep and 
lasting, free from deceitful protestations and empty 
words. Oh ! home joy ! Home peace, how ye type the 
joy of future bliss, the untroubled rest which remains for 
the people of God, away beyond the conflicts and trials 
of life, where tears fall not, and storm-clouds never 
gather. Amid the joys of home, life’s cares cannot 
enter, so as to mar the joy of time. Tears are wiped 
away by loving hands, and life’s only joy poured gently 
into the troubled heart. Thank God ! Aye ! Thank 
God ! there is a spot where the adder tooth cannot reach 
us or the assassin’s dagger strike us. 

Columbus, Texas, Nov. 5, 1858. 


FAREWELL TO THE OLD TEAR 1863. 

Farewell, old year ! Thy wild winds 

Roll around me shrieking like lost spirits gloomed in woe ! 

No starry smile lights thy dark face, 

No balmy winds hymn their iEolian songs, 

No bright blue skies bend o’er me to-night, 

Smiling the promise of a bright to-morrow ! 

All is dark and stormy, like a wintry grave, arched by no 
bow of plighted peace ! 

Your winds and darkness type full well the circling 
storms that how] o’er corse-incumbered fields of 
blood 

Where wreathed and wreathless warriors sleep heedless 
of the ensanguined strife. 

No holy memories are shrined within thy bloody bosom, 
No oasis of peace and joy shines o’er the dreary barrens 
of thy honored past. 


OF EGBERT HAYWOOD OSBORNE. 


201 


E’en Hope’s heaven-tinted bow is shaded by the war- 
clouds funeral gloom. 

I search in vain thy perished archives to find some light, 
and yearn to catch some hymn of brotherhood, 

Some symphony throbbing out the gushing tones of love 
and harmony — 

Like thy wild farewell winds, so is thy war-gloomed 
annals, 

No halcyon breathing notes, no soft and holy under- 
chimes of promised bliss, or blending the new 
year dreams. 

The ghost of the haggard past wails its farewell dirge of 
woe, 

The future brings no evangel of dawning light : 

God reigns for evermore ! 

Dec. 31, 1863. 


WHAT ARE OUR HOPES? 


Like garlands, on afflictions’s forehead worn, 

Kissed in the morning, and at evening torn. 

Cynthia. 


Answer. 


“ What are our hopes?” The living tendrils, 

Which entwine the ruined shrines of life, 

The green spots mid the desert’s gloom; 

The voice of music which enthrones itself upon the 
shrieking waves of desolation ; 

The flowers of earth, the stars of heaven : 

Affliction’s only boon, despair’s eternal evening ; 
Earth’s Eden, where the flowers never fade; 

Time’s winged angel singing o’er graves where loved 
ones sleep in death — 

Born with time’s first morn 

Ending only ’mid the quiet of heaven’s songs of angel 
melody ! 


202 


LIFE, LECTURES AND POETRY 


I will tell you, Cynthia, where hope is not — 
One word will pour the truth upon your ear : 
Hope is not in Hell ! 

Hardeman County, Dec. 12, 1860. 


PEACE. 

Peace, ’tis a holy, heaven-coined word 

Freighted with prosperous days, 

And long and happy hours of bliss. . 

Commerce triumphs in its smile 

And education hails it as its friend. 

Kingdoms grow swiftly in its beaming sight, and every 
human soul is glad to revel in the glory of its 
beams — 

Oh ! would to God that peace, the poor man’s dearest 
friend, would wing its way to lone and dreary 
homes and make us glad once more. 

April 2, 1862. 


“ THE FOOL HATH SAID IN HIS HEART THERE IS NO 
GOD.” - PSALMS. 

Surely no sane mind, professing to be wise and enjoy- 
ing the reputation of being learned among mankind, 
hath ever denied the existence of a supreme first cause, 
an all-pervading governing providence. Yet strange as 
this may seem men have lived, do live, live girdled 
by the providence they deny, the laws they contemn, 
and the goodness they spurn — live zoned by the infinite 
manifestations of God’s sublime purposes, encompass- 
ing him as the atmosphere — appealing to him in every 
wind and wave, every star and flower, every springing 
blade of grass and every beat of his heart, and yet have 
denied, and do deny, his existence. God in nature, 


OF EGBERT HAYWOOD OSBORNE. 


203 


God in Providence, God in Reason — God in a written 
revelation — “ God in Christ Jesus reconciling the 
world unto himself,’ ’ by his long-suffering kindness and 
tender mercies, his fatherly care and unwearied protec- 
tion. The God of the universe and of redemption finds 
no room in his meditations, no home in his heart; for 
he “ hath said in his heart, there is no God.” Men 
have arisen on our fallen planet, so far fallen below the 
moral apostasies of rebellion, so lost to philanthropy, 
virtue, reason, nay, so reckless of the consequences 
of such a monstrous heresy, as deliberately to affirm 
that there is no God but reason. That matter is God, 
and God is matter, and it does not matter whether 
there is a God or not ! That there is no religion 
but natural religion and all religion is unnatural ! That 
man is a brute beast, the soul is the body and the body 
is the soul, and after death there is neither soul nor 
body ! That hell embosoms no arguments of interest 
and heaven kindles no hopes of bliss ! The thunders of 
Sinai are but the ravings of deluded hierophants ; the 
precious messages of the gospel the frozen flatteries 
of selfish and designing priests; the rapt rejoicings 
of the saints the puerile ebullitions of heated imagi- 
nation and blind fanaticism ! He “ hath said in his 
heart, there is no God.” He looks each day upon the 
rising and setting sun, hears the unfaltering anthems 
of universal nature; gazes upon the midnight heavens 
gemmed with sentinel stars, that keep their watch 
along the outposts of eternity — singing their halle- 
lujah — “the hand that made us is divine.” And 
as he contemplates the harmony and wisdom and evi- 
dent design inwoven with the laws of the material world 
and harkens to the uprising jubilee from ocean, lake and 
river, mountain, hill, plain and valley — from heaven 
and earth, he alone crushes from his soul every aspira- 
tion of praise, every impulse of devotion, scowls darkly 


204 


LIFE, LECTURES AND POETRY 


in the shining face of nature, pours his envenomed scorn 
upon all her glorious nature and strives to change her 
harping symphonies into funeral wailings; orphans the 
universe, strikes the scepter of omnipotent love from the 
hand of Jehovah, and sinks the eternal destinies of all 
worlds amid the midnight abysm of chance. With the 
learning of all ages unrolled before him, the triumphs 
of the Cross stretching from Jerusalem far round the 
civilized world, kindling its martyr fires and shedding 
its heroic blood for Jesus’ sake, amid the howling storm 
of kings, and priests, and popes, mitered monks and 
sceptered monarchs, with the footprints of the angel 
Beligion walking around the couch of pain, administering 
her heavenly benedictions, kindly, gently, to all, moving 
on through flood and flame singing her triumphant songs 
of praise to God, passing through the tribulations of 
earth, to a throne of glory, — in all this the poor, bewil- 
dered, deluded slave of Satan sees nothing save the 
operations of priestcraft, the mouldings of chance. 

He denounces God, religion, the Bible, heaven, hell, 
and dreams that the grave is but the apotheosis to the 
fell genius of annihilation ! He boasts of human reason, 
denies the claims of the evangelists to truth, but yields 
his most hearty consent to the blasphemous follies of 
Hume, Volney, Voltaire and Paine. While he lauds the 
triumphs of Mahomet and the glories of the Koran, he 
pours contempt upon the divinity of Christ, and spits his 
venom upon the face of God’s revelation. He refuses 
the homage of his heart to the high demands of Christi- 
anity, while he professes to believe in the philosophy of 
moral science. Believes in the jurisprudence of chance 
and the majesty of luck, while he prefers to acknowledge 
the teachings of chemistry, physiology, astronomy, geo- 
logy and natural philosophy. Throughout the wide em- 
pire of their tutelar god, Chance, they profess to see the 
harmony of law and the grandeur of design. They dis- 


OF EGBERT HAYWOOD OSBORNE. 205 

card as a delusion the immortality of the soul, and sink 
the hopes and aspirings of enlightened manhood, the ap- 
peals of conscience and the claims of reason and truth, 
amid the moonless, mornless night of eternal slum- 
ber — death — with no hope of waking! Consigns his 
own offspring to the jaws of the remorseless grave with 
the serene reflection “ here ends the race of life, this is the 
goal of destiny! ” He turns away from the tomb with 
the oft-uttered dogma of his creed — the highest estate of 
human happiness is found in the unbridled gratifications 
of licentious appetite — Vivamus dum Vivamus — or in 
the frozen language of a remorseless heart, “ Let us eat 
and drink, for to-morrow we die.” The fool hath said in 
his heart “ there is no God.” How does the atheist know 
there is no God? Has he at any time seen God? If so, 
how can he affirm there is no God? If he hath never 
seen him how does he know he does not exist somewhere 
in the boundless world about him? Before he can affirm 
that he knows there is no God he must go out upon the 
wings of the wind to* the uttermost parts of the earth; he 
must penetrate to the central stone of the world; he must 
track the waters of every recordless deep ; wander over 
every island and descend into the caverns of the ocean ; 
he must scale the summit of every mountain; go down 
into its hidden gorges, look into every valley and 
over every outstretched plain, and when he has left 
not a foot of earth or water unkenned and unencom- 
passed, he must then penetrate to the shining glories 
of every solitary star in night’s grand diadem — rise 
with the god of day and go with all the shining 
cohorts to where he lays his crowned head upon the 
rocking waves. He must search over all the rec- 
ords of a pre-adamite earth through all the unvisited 
spheres and unfathomed depths of a bygone eternity. 
He must hold converse with every man living and dead; 
talk familiarly with cherubim and seraphim, and from 


20(> LIFE, LECTURES AND POETRY 

each and every one he must learn that never, never did 
they see or hear of God, of Jesus, or of the Holy Spirit. 
He must then come back to earth with the testimony of 
the living and the dead since the days of Adam and Eve 
throughout every age and every generation, with the 
signatures of angels and archangels, cherubim and sera- 
phim, and assure 11s that nowhere and from no being, 
embodied or disembodied, through all the unmapped and 
unvisited worlds that compose the wide universe, did he 
hear or see the faintest footprint of a reigning, ruling 
God 1 And then he would be a god himself, for he must 
be omniscient to know all things and omnipresent to 
penetrate all places and all climes and worlds. Surely 
he hath leaned his idiot back against folly’s topmost 
twig, and won for himself the appellation given him by 
the psalmist David. The fool hath said in his heart 
there is no God. And shall I yield up the glorious hopes 
of the gospel for such a creed, — a creed that blights, 
blasts, poisons, and corrupts, and degrades all it 
touches ; orphans the universe, dishonors God, degrades 
man, blots out all distinctions between virtue and vice, 
and paves the way to hell with spirits damned? Never, 
never, will I yield my consent to so foul a system or 
affix my signature to so dark a libel against God and 
humanity. If religion be a lie, I infinitely prefer its 
delusions, harmless and beautiful and merciful, to the 
moral deformities and monstrosities of atheism. If 
religion be an error, I am satisfied with my error ! I am 
with Newton, Locke, Boyle, Milton. I am with the wise 
and good of every generation, and my error brings 
peace, strength and power — peace in life, strength to 
overcome temptation, and power over death and hell. 
My error imposes upon me continually the necessity 
of virtue, morality, truth, justice, mercy, and love to 
God and man, and if Christianity pointed with no 
prophetic finger to the future of the soul I would prefer 


of Egbert haywood osborNe. 20? 

it even for what it seems here, of happiness and good 
order in society, rather than brutalize the manhood of 
mind and the decencies of refined and enlightened com- 
munities by embracing a system that dishonors the sanc- 
tities of the marriage vow, and legitimatizes adultery 
and fornication. But the religion of the Lord Jesus 
Christ is true ; it is true in all its promises, all its hopes, all 
its doctrines and its ordinances. It has pledged redemp- 
tion to the humble, penitent, believing soul, hope and 
succor while on earth, and life eternal beyond the gloom 
of storms and the bickering of factions. Christianity is 
divine, and it has left the signatures of its love and power 
upon the records of the world for more than eighteen 
hundred years, and it will yet make itself felt and 
acknowledged. It will still go onward, conquering and 
to conquer, until superstition and idolatry own its heav- 
enly power, and the millennial morning dawn upon the 
full harvest of its victories, and from the rivers to the 
ends of the earth all the world shall know and own there 
is a God ! 

March 5, 1865. 


WAR. 

And still the war rages fiercely, every avenue of busi- 
ness is dried up, every path to competency darkened. 
He who depends upon his intellect for food and raiment, 
for comfort and peace, alas, has but a broken reed to 
lean upon. Education, energy, and toil, bring scarcely 
a miserable pittance to keep together the fluttering rags 
of want and poverty. Men professing to be prophetic 
in their blind prognostications tell us that this war must 
have a speedy ending. Over twelve months have fled 
into the past, and the North and the South are but 
beginning to marshal their forces to the tented field of 
battle; over a million armed men to-day crowd our once 


208 


LlEE, LECTURES AND POETRY 


peaceful valleys and float upon our coasts ; England and 
France have refused to acknowledge our independence; 
nothing is left to the gallant heroes of the South but to 
win their freedom unaided and alone. We have no data 
by which to judge of the end of all this bloodshed, 
devastation and death. One year ago men of prophetic 
vision assured the dear people that it would be a very 
short contest — that a “ lady’s thimble would hold all the 
blood shed in this war.” Alas! alas, for modern 
prophets, political prophets. Manassas, Bethel, Bull 
Run, Belmont, Donelson, Tishomingo Creek, besides 
many other battle fields, tell a different and a sadder 
story to the people than the vain babblings of political 
jugglers and partisan tricksters. No man can tell where 
this second war for freedom will end. Over twelve 
months have passed away and the contending forces 
seem only to have commenced the struggle. My heart 
tells me that victory will crown the efforts of the 
Southern people to achieve for themselves and their 
children the high and priceless boon of human free- 
dom. Peace will come sooner or later, and when this 
heavenly blessing has been won, every human heart 
will rejoice. The Confederate States will probably 
assume their station amid the mighty nations of 
earth, and prosperity will again crown our land and 
country. But ambitious and designing men will rise up 
advocating the doctrine of a limited monarchy and en- 
deavoring to crush the genius of republicanism. If the 
monarchical party should succeed in their efforts to over- 
turn the principles of republicanism, then a long, a last 
farewell to all our glory as a nation ! 

This great political conflict will surely take place in 
the South — the signs of the times clearly indicate the 
gathering storm — nothing will, nothing can, secure the 
perpetuity of free government, a republican government, 
to the people, but the education of the rising generation. 


OF EGBERT HAYWOOD OSBORNE. 209 

If the masses grow up in ignorance, our country will 
perish amid the ruins of self-government. 

Educate! educate!! educate !!! the masses. Sow 
broadcast the seeds of truth, and virtue, and intelligence, 
then the dawning dream of monarchy will be over- 
whelmed by the indignant voice of an enlightened people 
and the genius of democracy will enthrone itself upon 
the institutions of the South. 

Since the introduction of sin into the world by dis- 
obedience the whole earth has from time to time in differ- 
ent places, been darkened and blighted by the horrors of 
war. Peace and brotherhood are the natural result of 
righteousness, for it is written, “ Righteousness exalteth 
a nation, but sin is a reproach to any people.” Sin then 
is the prolific source of all the ills which flesh is heir to. 
National sins bring reproach from heaven upon the un- 
righteous nation, just as surely as personal disobedi- 
ence brings swift destruction upon the guilty individual. 
Infinite wisdom and goodness hath kindly bequeathed to 
the civilized nations of the earth the lessons of peace, the 
evangel of brotherhood, prominently inculcating the 
golden principle of philanthropy: ‘‘do unto others as 
you would have others do unto you.” Had the nations 
of the earth possessed the spirit of this divinely inculcated 
sentiment in all their international communications, we 
would not now be burdened with a sorrowful and relent- 
less and bloody strife in the constitutional compact which 
kept together the old Union for near a century. Each 
State was a sovereign power, having the right to control 
its own State institutions, so that these institutions did 
not tend to the overthrow of the constitution. 

Slavery, which is recognized in the Bible and granted 
to the Southern States by the constitution, became the 
bone of contention, the fuel which ignited and kept alive 
the relentless spirit of fanaticism in the bosom of the 
Northern people against the Southern — this spirit which 

14 


210 


LIFE, LECTURES AND POETRY 


threatened us so long with ruin and civil war is now glut- 
ting itself upon injustice, rapine, murder and devasta- 
tions. A once united, great and prosperous people are 
warring against each other — the South to maintain its 
old constitutional rights — its freedom — the North to 
subjugate, oppress, and, if possible, exterminate a free 
and independent people by military despotism, confisca- 
tion and onerous taxation. Alas! alas! for our once 
happy, happy land! Sorrow and darkness fill the once 
peaceful homes where joy and plenty brooded o’er the 
glad hearts of the people. Wives sit alone amid the 
melancholy ruins of departed peace and bathe the weeds 
of their widowhood in tears of anguish. Happy children 
dependent on a father’s arm for sustenance wail in the 
bitterness of hopeless despair over the sad message of 
that father’s death. 

Sorrowing mothers and proud fathers made childless 
by the demon of war — think of their own, their only 
son, once proud and free, and happy in the prime of 
manhood’s hallowed promise, and mourn in deep sorrow 
their childless lot. Innocence, beauty, and virtue, lie 
bleeding in the gloomy wake of the Northern vandals. 
Oh I War ! Thou wilt never close the volume of thy 
bloody tragedies until Emmanuel’s kingdom fills the world 
with its millennial peace. 

Kipley, Miss., March 16, 1862. 


SYMPATHY. 

How sweetly falls upon the bruised heart, 
Bowed ’neath its weight of keen forsakings, 
The gently murmured words of sympathy; 
Not dew on Southern flowers, not sunlight 
On the frozen earth; not moonbeams 
O’er stormy waters, seem so deeply sweet. 


OF EGBERT HAYWOOD OSBORNE. 


211 


O I Angel Sympathy, in kindly spoken tones, 
Friendship’s own golden words. Sick 
In the holy depth of love and hope, 

How sweetly did ye linger o’er tny heart 
And cling around the binding columns of the 
Sorrowing soul, a heaven-gathered 
Garland, dewy with angel’s tears ! 

How ye came to the sick room’s 
Shadows and hued life’s lonely future 
With the visioned bow of promise; 

How the buoyant spirit mingled its 
Sunshine with my once lone heart, 

And bade my couched heart leap 
From out its chaos shroud and go 
On in its proud rejoicings, up, up, 

To the goal of future peace. 

Oh ! sweet and cheerful sympathy, 

How ye stamp the empty selfishness of life, 

Its vampire hissings and its low-browed words 
With the holy scornings of thy pure soul. 
Friendship, with its Levitish scowl, that leaves 
Its brother man to fall and bleed and die, 

And rot a corpse on life’s highway — 

Such friendship, with its empty protestations, 
Is a thing too deeply mantled in the low 
To bear about the ghostly caverns of its soul 
One deep and holy breath of sympathy. 

Oh ! that life were one long, bright path, 
Crowded with honest love and honest hate, 

So that the heart might feel in whom to trust, 
On whom to pour its tide of love, 

Dreading not the assassin’s blow 
From the dagger of a friend ! 

Columbus, Texas, Oct. 25, 1858. 


212 


LIFE, LECTURES AND POETRY 


SUSPENSE. 

“ Hope deferred maketh the heart sick.” 

I have waited, yearningly and long, 

And prayed and hoped and wept, 

And dreamed, and mourned and murmured, 
For the golden hour of auspicious light 
To dawn with every rising sun ! 

I have “ counted time by heart-throbs,” 
Marked each dying hour, 

Trusting that ere its last expiring moment 
Came, lone messenger of peace 
Would say “ go forth to battle ! ” 

Suns and stars have rose and shone and set, 
Days, and weeks, and moments, have 
Come, and they are gone ! To others 
Time hath brought the living words of hope, 
To me the sad evangel of despair ! 

And thus it is to wait, and watch, 

And hope in vain. Thus it is to die 
Hour by hour, slow but sure ! 

The fettered spirit beats its prison bars, 

And howls round its dungeon home, 

And wails its requiem of despair 
On every passing wind in vain ! 

In vain ! the galling gyves of penury 
Eat like a hungry canker in the soul, 

Drink up the fountain words of hope 
And arise the simoon o’er the verdure 
Of the youthful heart. Ambition’s dream 
Is flown, aspiring hopes are dead, 

The future of my life forever gloomed 
In the “ sullen calmness of despair.” 

23d March, 1861. 

Hardeman County. 


OF EGBERT HAYWOOD OSBORNE. 


213 


TO MY WIFE. 

There is an all-consuming sorrow at my heart, 
A scorpion whose fangs are full of gall, 

A serpent, poisonous in its every fold ; 

Oh ! ’tis the gall, the poison, the sorrow, 

Of a deep and lonely dreariness of soul, 
Absorbing and engulfing every thought ; 

A zone of hottest fire, consuming 
The full heart’s dearest, fondest hopes, 
Draping life’s present in its woe, 

And circling the teeming future 
In one lone, dreary hell of grief; 

Oh ! thy presence can dispel it all. 

And pour a wave of brightness on life’s past, 
Changeless in its virgin beauty, 

Gilded with golden clouds 
Of ever-during peacefulness and joy ; 

Oh ! come to me in smiles, love, 

Come as the sweet moonlight 
O’er midnight waters; 

Come as the freighted ship 
Borne on the starlit wave 
Burdened with holy hours. 

Oh ! then my full heart will leap 
Like light from out its chaos shroud, 

And in its proud rejoicings 
Carve its immortal brightness 
Far along the star-gemmed roll of fame, 
Forever brightening in its path of light. 
Come, my smile shall know no shadow, 

My heart no woe, my arm 

No weakness, and my brain 

No freedom from its toil of love for thee; 

Oh ! I will be to Ihee as sunshine 
To the thirsty earth, as dew to flowers, 


214 


LIFE, LECTURES AND POETRY 


As hopes of heaven to a trusting heart, 

As father, mother, brother, sister, 

Aye, “ my heart’s idol,” from sorrow, 

Such as mine, and give thee 
The sacramental benediction 
Of a hope that knows no waning. 

Crush thy “ old fear ” 

From out thy great heart and love me as of old, 
Thou lovedst me fondly, proudly, 

Cleave to me in this, my desolation, 

And crown life’s battle with a smile, 

Whose brightness n’er will fade 
From memory’s sunlit tablet. 

Come to me ! Come with our jewels 
Pledges of our olden love, 

And golden ties of future joy. 

Oh ! leave me not in sorrow, 

To battle with life’s coming storm; 

Pray for me nightly, silently, 

That my evil genius may depart. 

Thank God it has departed. 

Oh ! thou art more to me than wife, 

In all the holy gladness of the name, 

Thou art my better angel ; 

Thy hand can lead me back to God ! 

Thy prayers have led me there ! 

Oh ! if thou forsake me, then farewell 
To every hope and every gentle joy. 

An early grave, — a lonely grave, 

A cold, unhonored, dreary spot, 

A hill whose fires perish not ! 

Beneath life’s tempest wave I’ll sink — 

E’en now I stand upon the brink, 

And feel the woe, the coming gloom, 

And read my dark, my fearful doom. 

My heart is ashes, my soul despair 


OF EGBERT HAYWOOD OSBORNE. 


215 


No gladdening hopes embosom there, 
No light encircles life’s lone way 
No hopes of some dear coming clay. 
God help me, for I feel the gloom 
That shadows life’s eternal tomb. 

God ! make me from this dreary night, 
And give me hope’s dear, joyous light. 
Columbus, Texas, Sept. 26, 1857. 




The names of the living and the dead 
Blend upon earth’s darkened scroll; 
Misery and bliss, life and death are wed 
And joined on this sad roll. 

But the living and the dead must stand 
One day an angel or a demon’s band. 


THE CONTRABAND’S JUBILEE. 

Come all my friends now and listen to my song, 

I’m gwine for to leave you before the time is long, 

I’m gwine to my new master what’s got my heart and 
hand, 

Oh! farewell, my friends all, I’m going to Uncle Sam. 

Bress de Lord, Dinah, we now is quality, 

Come now my chilluns and sound the jubilee, 

Farewell to the ax, to the plow and to the hoe, 

Come along, my bredren, we niggers bound to go. 

Farewell to the cotton field and to de lazy mule, 
Hallyluyah chilluns, you now can go to skule, 

Old massa’s bound to feed us and give us a piece of 
land, 

Oh I bress de Lord, darkies, we now is contraband. 


216 


LIFE, LECTURES AND POETRY 


De bill of civil rights am passed, ober Andy’s head, 

It gits us all a buro, and a fedder bed, 

We needn’t plow the cotton, nor hoe the yam potater, 
For we darkies all are gwine to skule and to the legislater. 

De cullerd folks am quality, de nigger he is boss, 

De bockra he is mighty low, mas’ Sumner he’s a hoss, 
Seward is a hole team, bully for mas’ Thad, 

Oh! hallyluyah darkies, ain’t we all glad! 

If De bockra goes to cuttin up, we’ll catch him byde froat, 
Walk up to de ballot box and put in our vote, 

We can walk around all the week, and strut about on 
Sunday, 

Nor nebber mind the oberseer or feel scared of Monday. 

We can drink good whisky, smoke a pipe and sit down 
in de shade, 

Sleep and eat and walk around and never feel afraid, 

We can walk wid de white gall, bully de ole man, 

Oh ! hallyluyah darkies, we’s de top crust ob de lan’ ! 

Well, de times am changed de nigger’s life, 

Am mighty full of glory, and mighty full of strife, 

We got no home, we got no house nor land, 

We got no friens nor money, yet freedom’s mity grand. 

Freedom’s mity grand, freedom’s all in rags, 

My hat am all to pieces, and my ole shoes in tags, 

My fine blue clothes day all wore out, 

A fightin’ for my freedom upon a Yankee scout. 

Dey may pass all der civil bills, yet I am a nigger, 

No whiter and no richer, no better and no bigger, 
Freedom’s dream is busted up, its nuffin but a cuss, 
Nigger freedom am a lie, an abolition muss. 

April, 1866. 

Last Ditch of Poverty. 


OF EGBERT HAYWOOD OSBORNE. 


217 


WELCOME TO THE NEW YEAR, 1865. 

Blest Sabbath morn, first in the year, 
That brightly dawns upon our land, 
Upon thy radiant cheek no tear, 

No storms within thy generous hand ; 
Gently gleams thy morning beams, 
Gently as my childhood dreams. 

Gazing on thy sunlit face, 

Hope reads of brighter days, 

On the future’s page we trace 
Joy’s sweet and hallowed rays ; 

May no dark and ghostly sorrow 
Cloud the future of to-morrow. 

The old year told its bloody tale 
’Neath many a cabin roof, 

Sad was thy part with its weary wail 
Glooming the spirit warp and woof; 
We list’ning heard its fearful story, 
Dim with tears and bright with glory ! 

New Year, all hail! we welcome thee, 
Thou hast brought us nearer home ! 
In a brighter land, by the Crystal Sea, 
We’ll never weep, we’ll never roam! 
But bid adieu to days and years, 

To sorrow, gloom and tears. 


LINES. 

How dark the future seems ! 

No bow of promise sweetly glows, 
No star of gladness gleams 

Above my spirit’s sullen woes, 


218 


LIFE, LECTURES AND POETRY 


Life’s joy is writ in sorrow’s shroud 
Lone and drear as the tempest cloud. 

The light which brightly flashed 
Across my once happy day 
Hath all my brightness dashed, 

In gloom and woe away, 

And now life’s thorny path, 

Is clad in storms of wrath. 

Oh, for the peace of yore, 

“ The light of other days,” 

Which lit life’s sea to every shore, 
And hallowed all life’s ways. 
Happy days 1 Ye are gone forever ! 
To charm no more, ah, never! 

“ Be not like dumb-driven cattle,” 
Falls on my ear a mocking sound, 
While I yearn for life’s battle 
My free limbs are bound 
By sad misfortune’s chains, 

As day by day life darkly wanes 1 

May 20, 1861. 


RANDOM THOUGHTS. NO. 1. 

Touch not the red wine’s siren lip, 

When sparkling it woos thy sight, 

More dearly than the Circean sip, 

’Twill lead to views of starless night, 
Though ’twined with beauty’s sunny smile 
Or zoned with wit and song, 

It gleams in the goblet to beguile, 

To ruin’s home it leads along I 


OF EGBERT HAYWOOD OSBORNE. 


219 


It cheers thee but to blight and blast, 

It withers by a single glance, 

Its tyrant’s chains will hold thee fast 
In dread delirium’s hellish trance! 
Genius pines in idiocy’s chains — 

Lost is its eagle’s flight, its giant might, 
Where fiery passion madly reigns 
There mark the soul’s dread night. 

Look, and thou art entranced ! 

Touch, and thou art blighted ! 

Life’s bitter woes enhanced 
Its brightest hopes benighted ! 

Hell’s fiery misery glitters there, 
Debaucheries roll in carrion lust, 

Its victim raves in fierce despair, 

And sinks unhonored to the dust. 

November, 1865. 


TO MY SON, E. E. OSBORNE. 

There are bright hopes clustering now 
About the future of thy coming life, 

The gleam of greatness shining on thy brow 
Speaks nobly for the future strife. 

Nobly and bravely stand the battle’s shock, 
A noble scion of a noble stock. 

Be true to God, thy country and thyself, 
Firm as the ocean girdled rock, 

Bow not to shrines of empty pelf, 

Shrink never from life’s fiercest shock. 

Be firm in friendship and forgiving too, 

To every noble impulse ever true. 


220 


LIFE, LECTURES AND POETRY 


For all earth’s golden, glittering sheen, 
For man’s poor weak applause, 

Scorn every act or thought that’s mean, 
Let truth and honor be thy cause. 
Remember how poor a thing is fame, 

A flickering, fading, dying flame. 

March 12, 1861. 


FLOATING. 

I’m afloat upon life’s ocean wave, 

The waters round me foaming, 

And I yearn for an early grave, 

The land where the loved ones are roaming. 
Life has its ties of purest gold, 

The beautiful and dear, 

But, ah 1 their look seems cold, 

Their very smile seems drear. 

I’m floating down the raving tide, 

Upon a dreary broken spar, 

Around me desolations glide, 

Above their shrines no star. 

The friends of my youth are gone 
And kindred ties are broken, 

And now I stand alone 

Without one hopeful token. 


“ THOUGHT.” 

Creation’s wondrous fabric speaks 
Of a Creator’s wondrous hand ; ' 
Man through its wondrous glory seeks 
Its glory seen in every land, 


OF EGBERT HAYWOOD OSBORNE. 


221 


The earth its fruits and flowers yield 

And groans with wealth each harvest field, 
The sun and moon and each glittering star, 
Send out their shining lights afar, 

To cheer the traveler on the road, 

And whisper to him there’s a God. 

We worship God through nature’s book. 
Upward to heavenly worlds we look, 

Each flower speaks His holy name 
And every ray of light’s a flame. 

Where glory kindled up above 
Tells us of God’s protecting love, 
Wisdom’s lessons brightly gleam 

On every flower, and leaf, and beam, 
Every wave that dances by 

Sings of its Maker up on high, 

Morn and noon and dewy even 

Brings us a blessing down from heaven. 

February 20, 1863. Ripley, Miss. 


THE SOLDIER’S REST. 

Within the vale he lay. 

In death’s calm, holy sleep, 

Above, the moonbeams play, 

And warrior spirits weep. 

Far from his boyhood’s home 
’Mid war’s red battlefield, 

He sleeps with his country’s honored slain 
’Mid helmet, sword and shield. 

His country wept his fall, 

Friends mourned his early doom. 


222 LIFE, LECTURES AND POETRY 

Tbe battle’s cloud his pall, 

The battlefield his tomb. 

He loved the sunny South 
The boon land of his birth, 

He gave his life to win her fame, 
The loveliest land on earth. 

He died as he had lived, 

A warrior true and brave, 

For the glory of his natal land, 

He fills a soldier’s grave. 

The dream of life hath flown, 
Life’s storms with him are o’er, 
Farewell, my beautiful, my own, 
We’ll meet on the golden shore ! 

December 18, 1863. 

Bolivar, Tenn. 


TO MY WIFE. 

“ We have lived and loved together, 
Through many changing years, 

We have known each other’s sorrows, 
And wept each other’s tears; 

I have never known a sorrow 

That was long when soothed by thee 
Thy smile can make a summer 
Where winter else might be.” 

My heart still turns to thee, love, 

As the dewdrop to the sun, 

Or the river to the ocean home, 

Then come to me, come soon; 

My love, thou art my idol, 

The star which shines on me, 

That brightens up my ever joy 
Like moonlight on the sea. 


OF EGBERT HAYWOOD OSBORNE. 


223 


Though o'er the world I wander, 

In search of light and joy, 

I'll never find a gentler heart 
So free from life's alloy; 

Then come to me, my darling, 

And let us dwell together, 

Loved and loving tenderly, 

Throughout life’s stormy weather. 

Through life's wide weary journey, 
Through every passing woe, 

We’ll closer cling together 
As sweetly on we go ; 

And when life’s journey's ended 
Its joys and sorrows past, 

We’ll cling together fondly, 

Cling ever to the last. 

October 20, 1857. 


HYMNS. NO. 1. 

Star of Jacob, o'er me shine, 

Oh ! light this darkened soul of mine, 
Prince of Peace ! oh, come this hour, 
And fill me with Thy glorious power ; 
Triumphant reign this holy day, 

King of kings, Thy scepter sway !. 

Bid the shadows now depart, 

Warm my cold and frozen heart, 

Give me wisdom, strength and grace, 
Oh, show me now thy shining face, 
Help me, Savior, to proclaim, 

To all the world Thy precious name ! 


224 


LIFE, LECTURES AND POETRY 


Make bare thine arm, Almighty Friend, 
Thy grace and peace in mercy send, 
Shed o’er all Thy heavenly love, 

Guide me, Savior, up above, 

Cheer me till my feet shall be 
Planted on the crystal sea. 

July 4, 1865. 


RANDOM THOUGHTS. NO. 2. 

Memory sweeps the relentless past, 

With her tireless starry wings; 

Thou halcyon hours too bright to last 

When life was wreathed with glorious things, 
Her visions rest on shining names, 

Where luster fills historic rolls, 

Along their countless, fadeless scrolls. 

O’er battle fields, ’mid martial dreams, 

Where glory lights the soldier’s grave, 

Where my country’s banner gleams, 

And war’s red pinions wave, 

There misery holds her shining way, 

Wreathing each brave, heroic name 
In garlands bright as summer day 
Forever templed in immortal fame. 

Alas ! that memory e’er should see, 

Aught save the beautiful and bright, — 

Yet there are names that blaze with infamy 
Darker than oblivion’s stormy night ! 

Thine who their country’s freedom spurned 
And with a coward’s craven heart 
Sought home where vandal fires burned 
And kissed the rod that made them smart. 

April 8th, 1865. 


OF EGBERT HAYWOOD OSBORNE. 


225 


TO MY ABSENT WIFE AND SON. 

I miss thy gentle smile, loved ones of life, * 

I miss thy form of grace, dear wife, 

Thy boyish gambols and thy laugh, dear boy, 

Form half of life’s deep joy. 

I know the loved of life are here, 

To bless and charm and cheer 
They turn from their childish play 
And ask, “ Will Ma be here to-day? ” 

Perhaps, my love, to-morrow, alas, to-morrow , 
Their very smile seems full of sorrow. 

Maggie mourns for mother dear, 

And each one sighs, “Oh, would that she were here.” 
We sit and count each weary hour, 

Of thy long and lonely stay, 

And love thee with a deeper power, 

Each long and lonely day. 

Moments seem hours and hours days, 

All dark and weary seem life’s ways, 

Its brightest charm, its sweetest smile 
Can never cheer, can ne’er beguile 
Me from my loneliness and sorrow, 

Though hope points me to the morrow, 

Faith whispers they will come 
To chase away my gloom. 

My weary heart yearns for thy sunny smile. 

As yearn the weary saints for rest; 

My thoughts are of thee all the while, 

And in my dreams thou art caressed. 

Earth hath for me no calm and happy spot, 

Home is not home where thou art not; 

I think of thee the live-long day, 

And for thy safety hope and pray. 

All, all is darkness, I’m sad and lonely, 

Thou canst cheer, and bless, thou only. 

15 


226 


LIFE, LECTURES AND POETRY 


I miss the morn, and noon, and night, 

I miss from earth its only shining light. 

What do I care for fame or wealth or pleasure, 
When thou art gone from me, my treasure? 
God gave thee, beloved, that thou mightest be 
Solace of my life, guide towards eternity ! 

I need thy counsel, and thy gentle smiles, 

To lure me from the tempter’s flattering wiles. 
Come back to me, come back to thine, 

Let us kneel together at religion’s holy shrine. 
Parted, life hath no cheering ray 
To light me on its darkened way, 

Come back, if but to mark our joy; 

Come back, my gentle wife, my little boy ! 
Your household gods will gather at thy side 
And pour o’er thee love’s shining tide; 

Come, make our home an Eden bright; 

Come, chase away this gloomy night. 

Feb. 6, 1863. Ripley, Miss. 


RANDOM THOUGHTS. NO. 3. 

A wifeless man, buttonless and sad, 

Out at the elbow, and a soiled shirt, 

A loafing wanderer, sour and mad, 

Filled with misanthropy and dirt! 

With matted hair and unshaved face, 

A living libel on old Adam’s race ; 

With no loving heart to rest his head upon, 
No loving wife to sew his buttons on ! 

No kindly tone his heart to cheer, 

Brighten his joy and soothe his fear, 

No loving form to his bosom pressed, 

No ruby lips to call him blest ! 


OF EGBERT HAYWOOD OSBORNE. 


227 


Friendless and aimless he seems to be, 

A broken wreck on a stormy sea, 

The married pity him and women ban, 

Ah ! sad is the doom of a wifeless man. 

With none to love him and no one to love, 

He goes cooing around like a matchless dove 
Alas, I gaze and it seemeth to me, 

He is a limbless, barkless sapling tree, 

While others are blooming around 
He only seems to shade the ground; 

No bud, nor bloom, nor fruit we see, 

Oh I pity the man, for a wifeless man is he. 

Ye wedded men ne’er give him room to say 
“ I’d rather be me than they !” 

My readers may deem the writer bold, 

Yet hell holds no fury like a scold; 

I have bathed my soul in love’s deep sea 
And from its caverned depths, I’ve brought 
The priceless gems and pearls of peace ; 

The pure gold of life I’ve sought, 

For peace and hope and charming faith. 

By shore and sea, through all life’s way, 

From thy siren lips, oh ! Fame, ambitious child, 
From pleasure’s flowery paths, and yet no day 
Shone on my darkness, weary and beguiled. 

I searched for peace in knowledge, 

Dug from dust-covered times of yore, 

And worshiped at the shrines of greatness, 

The shining Mecca on the world’s wide shore. 

An angel passing whispered “ Love,” 

And my Eureka echoed up above : 

I’ve found the pricely pearl 

Earth and Heaven’s brightest boon, 


228 


LIFE, LECTURES AND POETRY 


I’ll plant my standard and my flag unfurl, 
Write on its starry folds, one word, 

The music of the angels up above, 

Life’s only balm, heaven’s glory, Love. 
Ripley, Miss. 

February 6, 1863. 


TO MY DEAR WIFE. 

Together we have sang our songs, 

Together wept affliction’s tears, 

Together talked of life’s sad wrongs 
Together mourned our fears: 

Together hoped and wept and prayed, 

As o’er life’s journey we have strayed. 

Together hoped that each to-morrow 
Would chase away our gloom and sorrow, 

Bowed meekly at a throne of grace, 

Gazed up into our Father’s face, 

Yearning and praying all the while 
That He would free our hearts from guile. 

Glimpses of glory we have seen, 

Ambrotypes of Heaven, 1 ween, 

Visions of eternal life 
Beyond earth’s stormy strife; 

We have wept by the graves of our beautiful dead 
And looked to the land where their spirits had fled 

Hoping to meet on Eternity’s plains, 

And join them where our Savior reigns, 

Let us live, and love, toil, trust and pray, 

Till God shall call us both away, 

He His promised grace will give 
We with our blessed dear will live. 

Dec. 28, 1864. Bolivar, Tenn. 


OF EGBERT HAYWOOD OSBORNE. 


229 


SUNNY SOUTH. 

DEDICATED TO SENATOR CRISP. 

My native land, dear sunny South ! 

How proud thy mountains rise ! 

How true thy sons, thv daughters fair, 
How bright thy bending skies ! 

Italia’s land of brilliant dreams 
Is not so cloudless clear as thine, 

Nor are Silva’s fabled streams. 

So rich in history sublime. 

I’ve heard of England’s gorgeous story, 
The boasted queen of ocean vvaves, 

Yet her proud imperial glory 

Sinks ’neath oblivion’s darkest graves, 
And shining on thy starry page 
Are deeds of patriot fame, 

For thou didst dare and bravely wage, 

A noble war ’gainst England’s name. 

Dec. 28, 1860. 


HYMN NO. 2. 

Oh, Jesus, let Thy spirit guide me 
’Mid the stormy scenes of life. 

Cheer me by Thy peaceful presence 
Through the battle’s gloomy strife; 

I am weak but Thou art mighty 
King of kings and only Lord, 

Shield and strengthen me forever, 

By the power of Thy own word. 

Give to me faith’s conquering power, 
Let hope her sunny pinions spread, 
Let love fill up the glorious measure 
Till I am numbered with the dead; 


230 


LIFE, LECTURES AND POETRY 


Oh! then may angels light the valley, 

With the glory of their smile, 

And o’er Jordan’s stormy river 
I’ll be free from gloom or guile. 

November, 1865. 

Billy Pertle’s Old Place, Hardeman County, Tenn. 


SPRING. 

Spring, the happiest season in the year, 
When hud and blossom gleam 
Like jewels from the earth made drear 
By winter’s frozen vale and stream, 

A resurrection unto life’s bright day, 
Dancing in the sun’s mild ray. 

Nature long in frozen raiment clad, 
Entombed ’mid winter’s dreary snows, 
Now shouts her anthems sweet and glad, 
And wreathes her brow with the rose, 

In her resurrection robes she greets 
The world with accents sweet. 

The woodland lay is heard, 

And the hum of toiling bees, 

The song of happy bird, 

Amid the bright green trees, 

The dancing streamlet’s silvery lay, 
Warbling its song the livelong day. 

Ah ! Spring, thy flowers once made me glad, 
Thy birds, and streams, and songs, 

But now, alas ! my soul is sad, 

Brooding o’er my country’s wrong*. 

Nor bud, nor flowers, nor sunny day 
Can take this grief and gloom away. 

April 2, 1862. 


OF EGBERT HAYWOOD OSBORNE. 


231 


CHRISTMAS ODE, DECEMBER 25, 1864. 

In old Judea’s storied land, 

Sang in many a classic song 
The Magi and the shepherd band 
Heard strange music roll along, 

Richer than timbrel, harp, or lyre, 

Rolled that strain of heavenly fire, 

In the bright depths of the blue above, 
They saw the prophet’s star of love. 

Its vestal glories lit the sky, 

To guide the watcher’s yearning eye, 
Flashed on its bright prophetic way 
Glad epoch of redemption’s day, 

Shining where the God-man lay, 

Rapt angels shouted at His birth, 

Their music trembled o’er the earth, 
Thrilled the quick pulses of the air 
And nature hailed His Maker there. 

Sweet and sad was the poet prophet’s tone, 
He came, “ He came unto His own,” 

Alone in the manger’s dreary spot, 

His incarnate mystery all forgot, 

The proud world scorned His lowly lot, 

A root from out the blighted earth, 

Yet monarchs trembled at His birth ! 
Jehovah, God, ancient of days 
He came to tread earth’s weary ways. 

Deaf ears heard His heavenly name, 

Dumb mouths sang his wondrous fame, 

The King of terrors owned His power 
And nature blest His natal hour, 

O’er the dread portals of the grave 
Poor Lazarus saw His banner wave 


232 


LIFE, LECTURES AND POETRY 


On that bright day, redemption’s morn, 
Life and immortality were born. 

Babe of Bethlehem, eternal Lord, 

I hear the glory of Thy word, 

May Thy empire stretch from sea to sea, 
And nations humbly bow to Thee, 

’Mid peopled marts o’er deserts wild 
Blest be the memory of the Virgin’s child, 
To the blest memory of this day, 

The homage of my heart I pay. 

May my wearied footsteps be 
Planted on the crystal sea, 

Where Thy glory I can see 
Through the long ages of eternity, 

Forever happy and forever free, 

Loving and beloved by Thee 
’Mid heaven’s eternal melody 
Beneath life’s fadeless tree. 


AMBITION’S DREAM. 

In visioned splendor far away 

Before the young and hopeful soul, 

Like the golden clouds of an autumn day, 
Flashed the spires of Ambition’s goal ; 

A halo zoned the fabled spot, 

The Mecca of the heart shone there, 
Ambition’s dream was not forgot, 

Nor vanished yet in shapeless air. 

An angel form walked by the dreamer’s side, 
His siren tones were whispering of fame, 
His heart beat mildly, for the dreamer’s bride 
Was vaulting Ambition’s gift — a name; 


OF EGBERT HAYWOOD OSBORNE. 


Floral fields, sweet nature’s lovely face, 

The warbling birds, the laughing stream, 

And all the charms we love to trace, 

Were shadowed in Ambition’s dream. 

Mountains were scaled, wild oceans crossed, 

Dim deserts with no living springs were passed, 
Health, peace, and gentle joy were lost, 

Ambition’s dream was full at last; 

Fame’s garland wilted on the dreamer’s brow, 

The name for which he died is now forgot, 

His memory perished like a broken vow, 

And sorrow reared no urn above his resting spot. 

’Twas a maniac’s dream, a lure of death, 

Filled with fancy’s false and wandering light — 
An empty thing, born of deceitful breath, 
Heralded by sorrow to a starless night ; 

Then humbler be the paths 1 wander o’er. 

For p # eace in the depths of a proud obscurity 
Is richer far than fame’s imperial shore 

When gemmed with wealth from out the cavert 
sea. 

For the West Tennessee Arc/us. 

April 25, 1857. 


THE SHADOWS OP THE SICK ROOM. 

I am watching by thy side, dear one, 
Watching in the midnight hour, 

Dreary are the shadows round me, 
Hovering o’er thy wasted power ; 

The witching songs you used to sing 
Are changed to lonely sighing, 

Thou art so weary with the sickness, dear, 
Sometimes I dream thou art dying. 


234 


LIFE, LECTURES AND POETRY 


Ah 1 then the future is so dreary, 

With its dim, unbroken cloud, 

That my breaking heart is weary, 

Wrapt in woe’s grave-shroud, 

And all thy visioned pleasure, 

Which for years hath charmed my soul, 

Seemeth like some broken treasure 
Cast out on waves which tempests roll. 

’Tis then I watch each passing breath 

And count with dread thy pulse’s beating ; 

Should their beating cease ! then welcome death ! 

Life’s richest joy would be so fleeting; 

If its vestal charm had flown, 

There would be no gentle greeting, 

In life’s battle cheering ever on, 

Amid the conflict it was meeting. 

I am kneeling by thy couch, loved one, 

The heartless world is sleeping ; 

All within our home is lone 

And the wounded heart is weeping — 

Weeping o’er life’s coming woe, 

And trusting that this cup may pass, 

And pleasure’s waters sweetly flow 
Into our bleeding hearts at last. 

Oh 1 the shadows of the sick room, 

They test the love of the true-hearted, 

They rest upon the humblest tomb 

And the watchers dream of their departed ; 

For o’er the shadows of the gloomiest day ; 

O’er the crushed hopes and the blighted, 

There is a clime where tears are wiped away, 

And the loneliest soul delighted. 

February 7, 1857. 

For West Tennessee Argus. 


OF EGBERT HAYWOOD OSBORNE. 


235 


FADED LIGHTS. 

’Tis sweet o’er the dear old past to gaze, 
And step by step, to wander o’er 
The sunny spots, and haunted ways, 

The heather hills, and floral shore ; 

’Tis sweet to roam again with those, 

The bright, the loving, and the loved, 
Who cull’d with me the summer rose, 

As o’er the flowery hills we roved. 

But oh ! we roam together only 

In some dear impassioned dream — 

The places where we met are lonely 
As winter’s shadow-girdled stream ; 

The night-bird’s home is in the ruined hall, 
And faded is the astral light 
Which “ danced upon the parlor wall,” 

To cheer the joys of festive night. 

The broken ties, the faded lights, 

The beautiful of other days, 

Come to me in dreams of night 

Like the memories of childhood’s lays; 
The loved are gathered to the grave, 

And faded are the lights I cherished ; 

My life is like an ocean wave 

Where freighted barques have perished. 

There are fadeless hues, unbroken ties, 
And lights which ne’er expire, 

Where “ tears are wiped away,” and sighs 
Give way to songs on angel lyres ; 

The parted meet to part no more, 

And hushed is every bosom’s sorrow, 
Where joy hath no bound — no shore — 

A clime without despair’s to-morrow ! 

Bolivar, Tenn., January, 1857. 


LIFE, LECTURES AND POETRY 


BY GONE HOURS. 

My spirit's wandering ’mid the dreams, 

The hopes, the joys, the thrilling fears, 
That dimly float o’er the shadowy streams 
Of other days and other years ; 

Dream of the past ! ’tis sad and lonely, 

Its withered wreath of gathered flowers 
Haunts my crushed heart only 

With the spell of “ by-gone hours.” 

The past ! the past ! there’s a solemn spell, 
Which zone’s the light of other days, 

A dreary wreck of thought I may not tell 
Glooming o’er life’s troubled ways; 

No beacon fires, no hushed repose, 

No words of kindness gently given 
To light, or soothe, or hush the woes 
Of heart and brain by tempests riven ! 

And yet I love to wander ’mid the gloom 
Which haunts those “ by-gone hours,” 
Like shadows from the dreamless tomb, 

Or the simoon’s breath on flowers; 

Oh ! is there no bright and sunny spot, 

To gem the records of the past, 

Nothing which may not be forgot, 

Saved from oblivion’s opiate blast? 

Is there no rose in life’s wide wilderness, 
Whose beauty and perfume 
Can calm the spirit’s deep unrest, 

With the richness of its bloom ? 

Oh ! is there no place of rest — no floral isle, 
Lighting the gloom of other days, 

No word of hope — no blessed smile 
To cheer those half-remembered ways? 


OF EGBERT HAYWOOD OSBORNE. 


237 


Alas ! I search the archives of the past, 

For music’s tone — for something bright, 
I only hear the wailing blast 

Moaning through the dismal night ; 

There gleams no star, there is no spell 
But must be darkened — broken. 

In that wild word farewell 
Rends all of life’s sad token. 

The past with its lone bitter memories, 

Its ruined hopes, its faded dreams, 

Its brief glad scenes and bitter sighs, 

Its wild and surging streams, 

The past, ’tis gone — gone forever, 

Nor would I stay its rapid wave 
Which crushes life’s endeavor, 

And bears its glory to the grave. 

Forward to the future I will gaze, 

Even in the “ calmness of despair,” 
Hoping that the light of better days, 

May cheer me with their triumphs rare; 
Amid life’s battle 1 will bravely stand 

And “ let the dead past bury their dead,” 
Shaking life’s sorrows by the hand, 
Yearning life’s joys to wed. 

Bolivar, Tenn., June 13th, 1857. 


THE PAST AND THE FUTURE. 

Why murmur at the faded past. 

Or mourn the light of other days, 
The brightest dream will die at last, 
And perish from our longing gaze; 


238 


LIFE, LECTURES AND POETRY 


Bright as the glories of a golden sky, 

The future with its visions seems 
Painted on the rapturous eye, 

Like childhood’s sunny dream. 

The past has many a visioned spot, 
Rescued from oblivion’s sigh, 

Lights which may not be forgot, 

Joys which were not born to die ; 

The shadows and the sunshine blend, 
Along its far-traveled ways, 

Like the river’s onward wend 

It passes from our yearning gaze. 

The past is gone — the future is before, 
Its depths are far beyond our sight, 

Yet along its dim and silent shore, 

There gleams a beacon light; 

Ah ! many an eye hath yearned to see, 
And read the future’s history, 

Many a weary mind would flee 
Away to mingle with its mystery. 

I would not cease to hear and feel, 

The voices from out the troubled past, 
Oh ! I would bid its memory steal 
Into my heart e’en to the last, 

And like a light-house fire shine 
A warning o’er life’s tempted way, 

A sainted memory half divine 

Cheering the future’s coming day. 

Truth’s golden seed we treasure, 

From the harvests of the past, 

’Tis there experience crowds its measure, 
With knowledge which must last ; 


OF EGBERT HAYWOOD OSBORNE. 


239 


The present life is lighted, 

By the light of other days, 

And the future though benighted, 

Seems brilliant with its rays. 

There shines a future o’er the tomb, 

There tears are wiped away, 

There not a passing gloom 

Dims the spirit’s blissful day, 

Though sin hath scarred this heart of mine, 
And dimmed my future once so bright, 

I know there is a smile divine. 

Will chase away this gathering night. 

August 15, 1857. 


ODE TO SPRING. 

I have yearned for thy coming, beautiful Spring, 
And watched for thy pleasant hours, 

I have yearned to see thy sunlit wing 
Freighted with buds and flowers. 

The frozen horrors of the Borean blast, 

Have swept round my earthly home, 

But wintry winds have gone at last 
And the beautiful days have come. 

I hear the trill of the woodbird wild, 

Seeking in musical tones to woo 
An absent love, or a wandering child, 

With its matin song, or vesper coo, 

I hear the harp of the mocking bird, 

Singing its wondrous rhythm, 

The purest songs I ever heard 

Like the gush of a spiritual hymn. 


240 


LIFE, LECTURES AND POETRY 


Flora’s festive days have come, 

Balmy days and vernal bowers, 

Fragrant winds about me roam, 

Singing streams and beauteous flowers; 
Warbling birds and vernal wood 

Come back to charm my weary hours 
And praise the universal good. 

The blessed sunlight bathes the hills 
With bright and heavenly beams, 

The flowers bloom by the warbling rills 
And the wood with verdure gleams ; 

The frozen hills and ice-bound plains 
Are zoned with beauty’s virgin glance, 
Blossoming trees and singing rains 
Our hearts and visions now entrance. 

Oh, welcome, welcome, beautiful Spring, 

All hail to thy glorious sheen, 

The woodland songster folds its wing, 

To build its nest ’mid thy bowers green, 
Autumn and winter have fled away, 

With yellow leaves and dreary blast, 

Thou art budding and blooming this April day, 
Oh, beautiful Spring, thou art come at last. 

April 17, 1866. 


STRAY THOUGHTS. 

The sunny hopes of childhood, 
Sweet memories of the past, 

The shadows of the wildwood 
Were all too dear to last; 

The yearnings of the full soul 
To reach some prouder height, 

To win the prize — to gain the goal, 
Perished all, like dreams of night. 


OF EGBERT HAYWOOD OSBORNE. 


241 


My heart was shaken by the storm 
Of wild ambition’s strife, 

My ear was hushed to accents warm, 

To words of love and life. 

What recked the heart, when its fiery pulse, 
Was beating all for fame, 

While its every hope, its every wish 
Was for a deathless name? 

Through legends dim with olden lore, 

O’er star-gemmed fields of song and story, 
The wild heart voyaged evermore 
Searching alone for human glory, 

The sunny hopes of childhood, 

Sweet memories of the past, 

The shadows of the wildwood, 

Come back to me at last. 

They come with angel garments 
And words of loving cheer, 

To lure me from ambition’s paths 
To scenes more bright, more dear ; 

And now around the hearthstone 
At home, the loved are dwelling, 
Ambition’s maniac dream hath flown 
And love within my heart is swelling. 

Bolivar, Tenn., Dec. 30, 1865. 


AUTUMNAL FANCIES. 

Autumn’s lonely days have come, 

With its yellow leaves and sear, 

And all about my humble home, 

The winds are sighing low and drear; 

16 


242 LIFE, LECTURES AND POETRY 

Spring and Summer days have past 
Their vernal brightness fled. 

Their flowers were too dear to last, 

And now they slumber with the dead. 

Autumn winds around me sighing, 

Funeral songs to withered flower, 

All Nature’s mourning — weeping — dying, 
’Tis Autumn’s sad and lonely hour. 

Hushed is the reaper’s harvest song, 

The fields have all been gathered, 

The forest streamlet glides along 

Its silvery breast with red leaves feathered. 

I gaze in the face of dim November, 

And feel the annual hours flitting by, 

I stand by the morn of bleak December, 

And know the present now must die ! 

* So runs the course of months and years, 

So rolls Time’s restless stream, 

Life has its usual smiles and autumn tears, 

And soon ’twill have its winter dream. 

The bridal note of fairy Spring, 

Her crown of roses and her fragrant bowers, 
Are swept by Autumn’s yellow wing, 

Around its tomb are wintry hours. 

Dark clouds are gathering in the sky, 

Wild winds from the frozen zone, 

I see them, hear them, marching by, 

The Borean king is on his throne. 

November, 1865. 

Billy Pirtle’s Old Place, Tennessee. 


OF EGBERT HAYWOOD OSBORNE. 


243 


IN GOD IS MY TRUST. 

I trust thee, Father, in poverty’s gloom, 
I trust ’mid affliction and sorrow, 
Though sad seems the day of my doom, 
I trust Thee to-day and to-morrow ; 
Though dark seems the future to me, 
And the present is dim with tears, 
And my life is sad as a wintry sea, 

I will give to the winds my fears. 

I trust Thee for each earthly blessing, 

I trust Thee for thy heavenly grace, 
Thou hast heard my heart’s confessing, 
Thou hast shown to me Thy face ; 

On earth I ask no higher fame, 

No nobler title can be given, 

Than to trust my Father’s name, 

And hymn Thy presence up in heaven. 

November, 1865. 


I WANT. 

Who has never felt a single need, 

Nor sang in lonely strains a want? 

My heart is sometimes made to bleed 
As I gaze upon each pattern scant. 

I want a spirit free from sin, 

I want to feel a Savior’s love, 

I want the spirit’s power within, 

To guide me up above. 

I want a quiet country home, 

Surrounded by the kind and good, 

I want no more o’er earth to roam, 

I want a plenty of green pine wood. 


244 LIFE, LECTURES AND POETRY 

I want about $50,000 in clean cash, 

It would relieve me of much trouble, 

I want the money, not to cut a dash, 

Nor burst up like a gas bubble. 

I want a ministerial suit of black, 

I don’t want the white cravat, 

I want my friends to stand up to the rack, 
And be men, or mice, or an old gray rat. 

I want a good strong robust body 
Not full of pain and rheumatism 
1 want to be saved from shoddy 

Aristocracy, and religious fanaticism. 


MAGGIE HAYWOOD OSBORNE. 

(Born Jan. 31, A. D. 1801.) 

Thou hast in kindness given 

Another soul to guide and climb. 
Aid us to lead it up towards heaven 
May this bud of love ne’er perish. 
Beautiful immortal ! our hand 
Shall aid thee on to the better land. 

We know not what the future hath 
In store for thy young heart, 

What sorrows will engirt thy path 
How runs misfortune’s fiery dart. 

A parent’s hand will round thee throw 
Hope’s bright and peaceful bow. 

God shield thee, darling child 
From error’s stormy way, 

From snares which hath beguiled, 

The young from virtue’s way. 


OF EGBERT HAYWOOD OSBORNE. 


Oh, help us, power divine, 

To rear this holy gift of Thine. 

Thy mother's love, thy father’s hand. 
Are all too weak for this dread task, 
Man’s words are written in the sand, 
To God we go for strength and ask, 
Might from Thee, oh ! power divine! 
To rear this holy gift of Thine. 

January 31, 1861. 

Hardeman County, Tenn. 


TO MY ABSENT WIFE. 

O! darling, I have missed you, 

Missed your sunny smile, 

And in my dreams I kissed you, 
Murmuring love the while.. 

I wander ’mid the gay crowd, 

In search of peace and pleasure, 

Yet o’er the heart a dreary cloud 
Darkens the spirit’s treasure. 

Beauty’s smile charmeth not 

The gloom within my weary heart, 
Life’s loneliest, desert spot, 

Would be an Eden where thou art. 
The festive hall, the merry song, 

Where youth and beauty stray, 

Where bright forms glide along 
’Mid pleasure’s floral way. 

All these sun-3pots, these dear retreats, 
Wild with revelry and wine, 

Where with tender tones the lover greets 
His fancied idol half divine, 


246 


LIFE, LECTURES AND POETRY 


Have neither light, no bliss for me, 

To chase away the gloom ; 

One beaming smile from thee 

Would brighten up life’s darkest doom. 

Sept. 30, 1857. 


FOUR FLOWERS. 

There are four flowers blooming 

And shedding fragrance on my way, 
Four sunbeams gleaming 
O’er my life’s lonely day. 

Dearer to my soul than crown 
Or scepter, gold or fame, 

The civic wreath, the cassock or the gown. 
Brighter far than glory’s flame. 

My daughters ! my soul goes out to thee, 
Affection kindles all its fires, 

Hope beams across life’s troubled sea, 
Thy smiles, thy songs, like angel lyres, 
Glow round my joyous soul 

And thrills my being with a spell, 

A power to win ambition’s goal 
And ope for thee affection’s well. 

March 23, 1861. 


MACHINE POETRY. 

Oh! don’t grieve, Cynthia, don’t, my dear! 

We will weather the storm some day; 
Then trust in God to dry the tear 
And brighten up our way. 

May 7, 1861. 


OF EGBERT HAYWOOD OSBORNE. 


247 


“COVETOUSNESS, WHICH IS IDOLATRY BIBLE. 

The miser, “ A laughing stock for men and devil,” 

“ The love of money is the root of all evil.” — Pollock. 

The want, the woe, the grinding need, 

Which wrings the spirits of the poor, 

Is not so damning as the miser’s greed, 

The ghosts which haunt the miser’s door. 

God’s pledges round the poor man’s cot, 

Illumes with peace the poor man’s lot. 

See the poor wretch with every passion cleaving, 

Fast to his gilded heaps, his idol god, 

With iron heart, and unbelieving, 

Worships naught save the glittering sod. 

Love, peace, joy, domestic pleasure, 

All yielded for the soul’s earth treasure. 

“ Worship God ! ” Alas ! he will not hear. 

“ Get wisdom ! ” Alas ! he heedeth not. 

For sorrowing ones he hath no generous tear, 

Envies the palace, scorns the humble cot, 

Hears not the cry of woe, but with obsequious smile 
Pays flattering court to pride and golden guile. 

There are no depths, no bounds, to the miser’s heart, 

A dark eternal void, a bottomless abyss, 

His soul immortal but a merchant mart, 

Wedded to an atom world like this. 

Deluded wretch ! thou hast bartered heaven for gold, 
Thy eternal peace to Satan’s madly sold ! 

“ Buy the truth and sell it not ” “ keep thy heart ” — 
Injunctions heavenly and divine, 

But he hath made his soul a peddler’s cart, 

And kneels with reverence at a golden shrine. 

O’er his folly “ men and devils,” gaily laugh, 

His only idol is a “ golden calf I ” 


248 LIFE, LECTURES AND POETRY 

Thank God that poverty’s honest toil, 
The bronzed brow and laboring hand, 
Tilling the kind and generous soil, 

These are the nobles of my native land. 
Honest poverty none but fools will scorn, 
The good alone are nobly born ! 

Corrupting moth, devouring rust, 

The ghastly shadows of decay and death, 
Sorrow and pain, and guilty lust, 

Live in the miser’s passing breath, 

And with his life’s last farewell knell, 

He sinks unhonored down to hell. 

January 3, 1863. 

Ripley, Miss. 


SONG — MY SPIRIT'S BRIDE. 

My spirit’s radiant bride, 

I welcome thee once more, 

Once more thou art by my side, 

A glory on life’s shadowy shore ! 

I meet thee, Lelia, in my dreams, 

I see again thy gentle smile, 

I wander with thee by the streams 
And hear thy tunes the while. 

Fond memory lures me to the past, 

I see again thy sunny form, 

Thy dancing smile, too dear too last, 
Like moonlight ’mid the storm; 

I dream that thou art here, 

Close by my side, 

And give the tribute of a tear 
To thee, mv spirit’s bride. 

March 11, 1861. 


OF EGBERT HAYWOOD OSBORNE. 


249 


TO CYNTHIA. NO. 2. 

I could not live in peace a day, 
Unloved, unblessed by thee ; 

Gloomed forever without one ray, 
My aching heart would be. 

For thou art all the world to me. 

I cannot live away from thee 
Parted from thy side, 

Fierce and dark would be life’s sea, 
My spirit’s only chosen bride. 

Without thy hand to guide 

I never can the storm outride. 

I grieve to dream that we may part 
And severed be the ties, 

Which bind to thee, my lonely heart 
’Mid life’s eternal sighs. 

I have no beacon light but thee, 

Shining o’er life’s stormy sea. 

March 8, 1861. 

Near Bolivar, Tenn. 



% 


INDEX. 


PROSE. 

Page. 

Domestic Peace 195 

Home Joy 199 

Home, Sweet Home 184 

Hope 197 

Life of E. A. Osborne 5 

Leisure Thoughts 190 

Leaves from my Portfolio — The Bible 180 

Masonry, The Genius of. 101 

Mission of the Young Men of the South 42 

Pursuit of Happiness 197 

Stray Thoughts 190 

Sad 196 

Sermon, The Fool Hath Said, etc 202 

Sphere and Mission of Woman 73 

Temperance Lecture — Evils of Drink 128 

To My Little Son 191 

War 207 

POETRY. 

Ambition’s Dream 232 

Autumnal Fancies 241 

Birdlings of the Roof-Tree 72 

Brevities 177 

By -gone Hours 236 

Cynthia (To) 127 

Cynthia (To), No. 2 249 

Contraband’s Jubilee 215 

Christmas Ode 231 

Covetousness 247 

DyingYear.. 178 


252 


INDEX. 


Page 

Faded Lights . 235 

Farewell to the Old Year, 1863 200 

Floating 220 

Four Flowers 246 

Hymn No. 1 223 

Hymn No. 2 229 

In Memory of W. B. and E. S. Grove. 96 

Idle Idyl.... 70 

In God is My Trust . 243 

I Want 243 

Julia E. Osborne 73 

Lines 217 

Maggie Haywood Osborne. 244 

My Spirit’s Bride 248 

Machine Poetry 246 

New Year 1863... 187 

Ode to Spring 239 

Patriot’s Song. 188 

Peace 202 

Random Thoughts No. 1 218 

Random Thoughts No. 2 224 

Random Thoughts No. 3 226 

Some Things I Don’t Like to See 127 

Stray Thoughts 240 

Soldier’s Rest 221 

Spring... 230 

Sunny South. 229 

Shadows of a Sick-Room 233 

Sister, To the Memory of . . . . * 94 

Suspense 212 

Sympathy 210 

To My Son * 219 

To My Wife. . 213, 222 

To My Absent Wife and Son. ........ 225 

To My Absent Wife. 245 


INDEX. 


253 


Page. 


To My Dear Wife 228 

Thought 220 

The Past and the Future.. 237 

What are Our Hopes 201 

We’ll Meet 95 

Wizard of the Saddle 125 

Welcome to the New Year 1865 217 


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